


While The Night Still Hides The Withering Dawn

by OnlyOneWoman



Series: Down Foreverdark Woods Trail [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Bigotry & Prejudice, Billy and Ned are asexual and happily married, Canon Divergence Characters, Caring, Domestic, Fear, Friendship, Guilt, Hate Crimes, Homophobia, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Lowbones, M/M, Married Couple, Memory Loss, Nurse Muldoon, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Rape Aftermath, Rape Culture, Rape Recovery, Same-Sex Marriage, Self-Harm, Service Dogs, Shame, Victim Blaming, asexual marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-04 06:34:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 24,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10270421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlyOneWoman/pseuds/OnlyOneWoman
Summary: This is a freestanding follow-up to the modern AU "Aces Of Spades And Hearts" series, that takes place about three years after Billy's and Ned's wedding in "At Ends Of Nights" (part 7 of "Aces..."). Ned is not the villain here! He and Billy are a happily married asexual couple since and now we're heading for angst and misery that non of them could prepare for...I will use both 1st and 3rd person pov with both Billy and Ned. Each chapter will be named with the pov. I also want to point out that this is VERY canon divergent when it comes to the characters, especially Ned Low. Wipe out the image of him as a cruel sadist, because this is not the case in the AU at all.If you're a fan of History Channel's "Vikings" and remember Tadhg Murphy's role Arne, or have seen this awesome actor in another role than Ned Low, "my" Ned will be far closer to those than the Ned Low character. And Billy is definately not a "Black Sails season 4 Billy".The title is borrowed from Nightwish's "While Your Lips Are Still Red"Gifts to Mad_Amethyst and AngryPirateHusbands for your addiction to angst and other reasons <3





	1. Billy (1st person)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mad_Amethyst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Amethyst/gifts), [AngryPirateHusbands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngryPirateHusbands/gifts).



This was not supposed to happen. Like so many others, I repeat that to myself as if doing it will increase your chances more than the tubes and the doctors. You are not suppose to lie in this bed, no one is.  
  
”Billy?”  
  
I know it’s John. Don’t have to turn around, I keep looking at you as before. Your hair is greasy after days in this bed and your smell has decreased. If I close my eyes and breathe in, smelling the air, it’s almost as if you’re not here. It’s been four days since I last heard your voice.  
  
The smell from sickness, disinfectants and body odours mixes with coffee. I take the paper mug John hands me and when I lift my arm, I realise the smell of sweat comes from me. I should take a shower, change my clothes, shave, eat something, go to sleep, get som fresh air but all the _shoulds_ are gone. At least you’re gone from the tabloids now. Or ”man, 33”. We’ve been married for three years and for three days you were dominating the headlines. And even though this is a big city and your identity was about as protected as it could be for a crime victim on the tabloids and the hospital staff have professional secrecy, I can’t stop thinking about the exposion, the fact that you’re put on display like this.  
  
It’s a second assault and there shouldn’t have been a first. John holds me as I cry for the first time since the first twentyfour hours by this bed. And I hear myself ask the question I know can’t get a satisfying answer ever.  
  
”Why him?”  
”I don’t know, Billy.”  
  
John’s arms and voice are comforting, despite the lack of answers I don’t expect him or anyone but the monster or monsters who did this to have. The man, men, woman or women who decided to drug and rape you, leaving you half-naked, hallucinating and bleeding by the road in the midst of winter. They took your shoes too and for some reason, the thought of that makes me cry harder than the other things I know and don’t know right now.  
  
”They took his shoes, John…”  
  
He doesn’t answer with words, doesn’t have to. He just keeps stroking my shoulder, letting me cry in his arms.  
  
”If I’d…”  
”Don’t.”  
  
John takes my face between his hands, looking straight at me.  
  
”Listen to me, Billy. This was not your fault. Not Ned’s, not yours. You hear me?”  
”But…”  
”Don’t. _Go there_. I’m not gonna fucking allow that, Billy. There was nothing you could’ve done to prevent this.”  
  
I know that’s supposed to make me feel less guilty, but it doesn’t work. Nothing works within me right now except from fucking tears. I’ve never cried like this, or this much, in my entire life. And all I want is for you to wake up, for us to wake up from this nightmare, but not like this. 


	2. Ned (3rd person)

In movies, people waking up in fucking sick beds, always ask what’s happened. They want to know why they’re in hospital. If there are people reacting like that in real life, Ned envies them now. Because he’s on the boarder of remembering and he doesn’t have words to describe even to himself what he feels right now. If he feels anything at all apart from the dull pain in his body.  
  
He’s not alone. Billy’s there, sleeping in a chair with a blanket over his long legs. John, who’s reading a magazine on the stool next to Ned’s bed, looks up and sees he’s awake. Ned stops him from going to wake up Billy, by moving his lips and John leans his ear close, curls tickling Ned’s lips.  
  
”Don’t… wake’im… up.”  
  
He takes Ned’s hand and strokes it before leaning close to his ear, whispering.  
  
”I have to call the nurse. Promised I’d do that if…”  
  
If Ned wakes up. If, not when. He closes his eyes and nods. Of course John has to call the nurse. And that will wake up Billy. Ned knows that, John knows it and there’s no protest. Ned guesses there are orders, or at least pleads for visitors to keep as calm as possible, but whatever they’ve given him to keep him calm, it’s working. Billy’s attempts to muffle his cries, to not grab him and hold him tight are so painful to see. To feel.  
  
Ned can see the struggle written all over him and that’s what pushes him over the edge too. Not the pain, not the notion of why he’s in this bed, but the sight of Billy trying to not break. Ned feels tears prickling his eyes, his throat tightening and he’s too tired to hold it back. When he moves to reach Billy, a sharp pain hits him like a stab and the things he knows connect with his feelings, like a strike right in his guts. There’s no face, no voice connected with it, only the naked realisation. He’s been raped.    
  
Billy’s crying. Ned’s crying too, only more silent. He’s been placed on the side, another thing effectively wiping out any lingering hopes that his memory is playing a trick on him. He clutches for his husband, the safety only he can provide, hiding himself in his arms.  
  
There they are, unable to go anywhere else with body or mind and Ned searches for something to focus on, something to take his mind of what’s happened. Like comforting Billy. Focusing on his husband creates a distance to Ned’s own feelings, a protection from the memory.  
  
”Don’t cry, muppet…”  
  
He’s alive, right? That’s good. Ned’s not aware of how his mind protects him from reality now, of course he isn’t. He’s been hurt but he’ll get well again and he’s awake. Some people don’t wake up, so this must be good. Another unintentional turn of his body smashes his thoughts to pieces as the burning pain comes back and he cries out.  
  
”Get the nurse!”  
  
Billy’s voice is hard and angry and John leaves without a word. Ned has almost forgotten about him, all he’s aware of now are all the things that hurt. Is he broken for good? Is this how he will feel from now on?  
  
The panic is not unexpected. If you’re a nurse, a doc or someone else knowing how a trauma like this can take form. But there’s no such thing as preparing for something like this and in this moment, the only thing that’s important, is to decrease the pain and panic as much as possible. The nurse John brings says something, looks at Ned and makes adjustments on the IV tube.  
  
Is he in pain? Yes. There are more questions but Ned can’t find words right now and the nurse stops asking, just checking his pulse and looking at the watch. The pressure from her fingers on his wrist makes him feel the beats under the skin again. Fast, but steady. And whatever that needle in the bend of his arm is connected to, it helps.     



	3. Billy (1st person)

One man and two women. The doctor says it’s a good thing the teqnique has improved so much. That it’s easier to find DNA traces. _He was lucky to be found so quickly._ I want to punch his face, scream, do something but I’m numb. My husband’s been drugged, raped and left half-naked in the snow by a high traffic road. _And he’s one of the lucky ones_.   
  
He’s asleep again and I guess that’s another thing I’m supposed to be grateful about. That the teqnique has improved enough to let my darling man forget the pain and memories a while. John is staying with him as I sit here in the doctor’s office.   
  
”A case like this is highly unusual. Two women and one man…”  
  
I swallow.   
  
”Has he said anything that could help us identify them?”  
”He was awake for some minutes.”  
”Do you know of anyone who…”  
”I already said no. No, I don’t know of anyone who might have wanted to rape my husband.”  
  
Sorry for not having a list of potential attackers with me. The doc talks about traumas. That it will take more time to heal mentally than physically. That I have to understand that Ned may not be able to have sex with me for a long time.   
  
Is this real? Is this what docs are saying to men who’s wives or girlfriends have been raped? Is this what they think is on my mind now? I feel sick and I don’t know where I find words.  
  
”We don’t have sex. We’re asexual.”  
  
Why do I even say it? Is it important? I don’t want it to be, but there’s an alarming bell in my memory I’ve never heard personally, that I know Ned’s heard more than once. _You need to be fixed._ Is that what’s happened? Some animals somehow finding out about my darling man’s orientation, deciding to rape him ”normal”?   
  
”You have struggles in your marriage?”  
”No!”  
  
I shouldn’t have to answer this, but I try to anyway.   
  
”We’re happily married and we’re both asexual. We’re not interested in sex, so that _problem_ you mentioned is not a fucking problem for us.”  
  
And probably not for sexual people either. Who the fuck believes that less sex is what worries people if their partners get raped?!   
  
I’m crying. The doc hands me a box of tissues. The first thing he’s done right since I came into his office. He’s old, I realise. Probably close to retirement. Men getting raped by men is probably not something he comes across very often. Men who’s been raped by women? I guess that’s even more unusual. And asexual gays are most likely something he’s not heard of. Any man who’s disinterest in sex isn’t caused by an assault, sickness or meds must have emotional struggles.  
  
”I… I think whoever did this, did it because he’s ace.”  
  
I said it. Can’t hold it back, because it’s my heart who’s been brutally assaulted and I know that anything I think can help them to catch whoever did this to him, should be said no matter what. And call me stupid, call me paranoid, but I believe this is one of the reasons why they picked him.  
  
I don’t know how they found out, why they chose him or how he met them. All I know is that my husband was found raped and drugged on the side of the road at least two miles from the club where he was to see a local band. Alone. 


	4. Ned (1st person)

Should I act differently? They all look at me like I’m behaving wrong. I know that people have images of how a rape should affect you. At least if you’re a woman. But I’m a gay man and those who did this to me were a man and two women. I try not to visualize them and the meds help me keeping the image on a safe distance. And what the fuck does it matter which sex those assholes had?  
  
I get the feeling that the doctor and nurses expect a reaction from me I’m not giving them. All I care about is having Billy here. He’s holding me on the bed, having my head on his arm and his other arm around me. Safety. The only thing that keeps me from going crazy right now. My anchor. He’s been crying and I can feel occasional dry sobs in my hair. I move to hide my face against his chest. For his arms to cover me more. From anything. Everything.  
  
The questions. I don’t remember them anymore, or the answers. I did answer though. Don’t know if it’s enough and I just want to forget whatever it is I will remember once the sedatives have stopped working. The drink, the slowness I felt… Someone laughed, an arm supporting me, another voice telling me not to fall. _You’re a funny guy._  They were from London.  
  
”What did you say, love?”  
”London… They…”  
  
Fuck, did those creeps steal my bloody voice?! I try to move again, this time the IV works and the pain is not as sharp, more dull and aching. Still very much there, but not cutting off my air when I move. My husband lets me hide. Doesn’t force me to speak, or look at him. He just holds me and the words I remember thinking on our wedding night echos inside me, mockering. _We’re safe now._  
  
”Fix me.”  
”What?”  
”They were gonna… fix me…”  
  
Voice lost again but it doesn’t matter. The thing that’s been laying like a constant threat over me since my fucking teens, a threat lots of women are forced to count on in this sick fucking world. And gay people of all genders. Correctional rape. A punishment for not being available. For being abnormal. Billy doesn’t answer their words coming from my mouth, because what’s there to fucking say?  
  
”Don’t leave me alone here…”  
  
If he does I will turn insane, I’m sure of it. Billy kisses my hair.  
  
”Never.”  
  
The only welcomed hands. What those animals did to me has not changed his hands. God, my thoughts are so erratic… I suddenly look down, realising I wear a shirt from the hospital.  
  
”Me t-shirt…”  
  
My husband swallows.  
  
”I’m sorry, Ned… It’s ruined.”  
  
My old Behemoth t-shirt. I wet Billy’s shirt with my useless tears. I remember. Want to forget.


	5. Billy (3rd person)

Ned’s curled up in fetal position on the bed and Billy’s using dry schampoo in his hair. The shirt borrowed from the hospital is changed to one of Billy’s soft longsleeves, too big for his husband but Billy can’t stand seeing him in the hospital shirt now. Ned doesn’t seem to care. He lets Billy do what he wants.   
  
The large plastic comb is ugly, so is the towel under Ned’s head. In fact, everything that’s not a part of Ned is ugly right now. Billy’s tending to the long, light brown tangles with patience and care. His husband, or most likely the staff, has made an attempt to wash him up a little and Billy doesn’t even want to ask if he was conscious at the time. Ned reacts to most touches except Billy’s, by freezing on the spot and Billy wishes he could tell the staff that particular behavior is not all about the rape. It’s something Ned always does when someone else than Billy touches him outside the theatre unless he’s drunk with close friends.   
  
Slow, slow moves with the comb. One tangle at the time, sprayed with dry schampoo. Focusing on here and now. Pretending there is no past to cry over, no future to fear. And no pain in the now. At some level, the betrayal works well enough for both of them to keep doing what they’re doing. Comb and being combed. The knock on the door doesn’t catch eithers attention.  
  
”Excuse me, Ned, but visiting hours are…”  
”I know. Leave us… Please.”  
  
Ned doesn’t even look at the nurse. He’s facing the door but has his eyes closed, hands searching for Billy.  
  
”Stay.”  
”But…”  
” _Stay_.”  
  
_Because otherwise I don’t know what’s left of me tomorrow._   
  
Billy knows. Hears the hollow voice. The wish impossible to ignore. He looks at the nurse, who’s not left, plead written all over his face when turning to her.  
  
”I can’t leave him now. Just can’t… You understand that, right? Can’t leave him alone tonight. It’s just… impossible.”  
”It’s not…”  
”I don’t care.”  
  
He gets up, leaves the room and pulls the nurse with him. The light in the corridor is sharper than in the room. Billy breathes fast.  
  
”I _can’t_ leave him alone, you’ll have to drag me out of here, call the cops or whatever but you can’t… He’s my husband, for God’s sake!”  
  
Breaking. He can’t break right now. Needs to be strong, but he’s falling apart, sinking down on the floor and the nurse asks if they should call someone.   
  
”Your friend who were with you… Could we call him?”  
  
John. Yes, John would come. Billy suddenly realises he has no idea what day it is. Can’t remember when was the last time he ate or slept like a normal person. He reeks too. His phone’s been off for days and he turns it on, trying not to see the missed calls and texts, just searching for John’s number and handing over the phone to the nurse.  
  
”You call him.”  
  
Not making the call himself, makes him less responsible for this.   
  
Stupid brain. Stupid, wounded heart.   
  
He’s still not done with Ned’s hair.


	6. Ned (3rd person)

He left and now Ned’s alone. The hospital’s rule about visitors doesn’t make it feel like less of a betrayal. His husband’s gone and Ned’s gotten more pills that make his body numb and his thoughts slow. But they don’t stop the tears.   
  
Ned doesn’t talk. The moment Billy left, when the pleads didn’t help, he stopped talking. Questions about water, bathroom visits, food, pain are left hanging in the air, unanswered. Barely noticed. And he doesn’t let anyone near. The safety, the one link to some kind of normality is gone and Ned’s not the only one who’s suffering for it.   
  
His behavior is not rational. There’s no reason for him to make it harder for them to help him, but that part of his brain is not functioning now and so, the IV is ripped off, food untouched and water spit out. A passive resistance against attackers who’re not there. Clawing against faces he can barely remember. And when they are left with no option but holding him down, injecting him with something to make him pliable, Ned just whimpers. He’s so scared and his husband has left him alone.  
  
His body goes from numb to boneless. Too heavy to move. Mind unable to think and feel.  Layers between him and the absence of Billy. Between him and the pain, the memories. The questions he can’t answer because so much of what happened is swept in a cloud. He remembers being at the concert, remembers deciding to head for a drink. He remembers talking to people, seeing Jacob disappearing somewhere. He remembers needing some fresh air and that he had company. Then it’s blank until the car.  
  
He can’t see the colour, it was dark. License plates? Forget about it. All he remembers is the sence of smoke and perfume. The seat was crowded. He felt squeezed and had to pee.   
   
Ned’s alone in the room, in the bed that’s not his own. No Billy to hold him, no one. And he screams. Pitiful sounds, weak and broken. And people come, but they are strangers and he panics. Whatever meds they’ve given him, it’s not enough to make whatever it is moving through his body and mind stop.  
  
The panic is clawing it’s way through him. There is nothing here to attache him to reality, nothing to sooth him. Nothing will do but the man who’s name the staff can hear through his cries. _Billy! Where’s Billy?!_  
  
Hands who are not welcome are all over him and Billy’s abandoned him. He understands that now. His husband wont come. No one will help him and Ned’s too weak to defend himself.


	7. Billy (1st person)

You need me calm, they say. Sweet darling… I’ve never felt so helpless in my entire life and I take your sweaty, limp and shivering form in my arms. I’m strong, I can lift you with little effort and I take you to the chair, placing you on my lap in a position that doesn’t increase pressure where it hurts the most. One of the nurses drapes a blue hospital blanket over us and takes another look at the IV.   
  
The sedatives they gave you apparently didn’t work well enough to make you stand my absence. I don’t tell them I told you so, because I don’t have to. That fact that they called me, that they’ve made an exception to their rules, speaks for itself. You’re not screaming or even crying now. Your hands are not clawing, but the scratches on your neck and chest bare witness of what happened.  I pull the blanket a little further up, to cover you.  
  
My bag is on the floor, because there’s just no way I’m leaving again. I should’ve refused the first time and they wont make me leave a second. That’s simply not happening and John and James are outside, telling that to the doc. I don’t know if I’m more grateful for their help or afraid of having exposed you in a way you will later blame me for. Don’t think I could take that. That’s almost as horrifying as the thought of leaving you alone again. Your body may be calm now, but I know no fucking sedatives will help if you wake up believing I’ve abandoned you again. They said your screams scared other patients. A little girl who was visiting her grandmother started crying. When my absence made you upset more people than yourself and me, they could bend the rules a little.  
  
”There will be a doctor coming in shortly.”  
”The same as before?”  
”Yes. Alfred Hamilton.”  
  
Fuck. I want to tell her to ask for another doctor but I’m already causing trouble here and I don’t want to give them a reason to actually force me to leave. I just nod, showing the nurse I heard her and then I turn to you again.  
  
You’re so beautiful. I want to say it, but it wouldn’t sound right to you now. I know that. Tangled hair, sweaty skin and dark rings under your eyes along with the tubes and hospital stuff don’t change that to me, but it does to you and now, as you need it the most, you’re not capable of hearing words about how much I love and adore every piece of you, inside out. Nor do you need to hear what I want to do with those who did this to you, or feel my heart raise because I can’t stand being forced to leave you again. And anyway, you’re sleeping again.  
  
”Is he awake?”  
  
I didn’t even hear the door. The doc who called you one of the lucky ones doesn’t bother to knock and frowns as he sees us.  
  
”He should be in bed.”  
”The nurse said it was okay.”  
  
He must see from the way you’re positioned, that it’s not causing pressure on the wounds. If it did, you shouldn’t be sleeping. The doc has cold eyes. He’s not pleased with me, I can feel it as he takes a chair and sits down, putting one leg over the other and taking up his reading glasses.  
  
”I heard you refuse to stick to our visiting hours.”  
”For good reasons.”  
  
The limp form in my arms that is you, doesn’t wake up and I pray to whoever would hear me you will stay asleep now. I don’t want you to go through this as well. The doctor almost seem to pity us.  
  
”I’ve increased the dosis of sedatives. I put him on a too low dose earlier.”  
  
Admitting a mistake? Progress.  
  
”What happened today will not be repeated.”  
”You can’t guarantee that.”  
  
I’m causing trouble and this… Alfred Hamilton who’s name I didn’t care to memorize earlier, shows it with his posture. With his disapproving gaze. I realise that holding you like this doesn’t improve his impression of me. Or you.  
  
He’s talking about hospital rules and regulations, meds and routines that will be your security net when I’m not here, but the absence of care in the voice just makes me more worried.   
  
”We will call you there are any changes, of course, but…”  
  
Clawing on my clothes.  
  
”I’m not leaving again, doc. It’s just not happening. You’ll have to drag me out or call fucking police, ’cause I’m not going anywhere now. I did it once and this happened. No fucking way I’m putting him through that again.”  
”Mr. Manderly, I…”  
”I said no.”  
  
I know. I’m upsetting you, that’s what he thinks, but you’re actually calmer now. You need me to fight for you, not following you blindly into the uncertainty. I tuck the blanket tighter around you, looking at the doctor with a gaze I hope tells him this is final.  
  
”I want to speak with your boss.”  
”I’m afraid that’s…”  
”Or I’ll just go to fucking newspapers telling how you rather sedate your patients than letting their family be with them.”  
  
A desperate move, but it works. At least some of the smugness fades in those cold eyes and he gives me a displeased nod.  
  
”Well, Mr. Manderly, I’ll see what I can do.”  
  
I can feel his despise staying with us, like a bad smell, when he leaves.


	8. Ned (1st person)

I scream, I go silent. I’m in pain, I’m numb. I remember, I don’t remember. The only thing that’s consistent in this, is the feeling that my body and thoughts are no longer mine. I’ve been invaded, that’s the only word that makes sense to what I feel, when I feel anything now.   
  
They feed me with the needle and let me suck on ice cubes. I don’t realise why until I try to leave the bed and get myself a cup of water. I throw up after a mouthful.   
  
Someone, maybe Billy, maybe the doc has reported me to the police. No, not me, but what’s happened to me and I’m not sure what I remember. The officer who’s hearing me asks Billy to leave the room before she begins. And there’s so little I remember. Was I drunk at the concert? Did I take any drugs? Did I accept anything to eat or drink from strangers? Did I come willingly? Could it be that it was consensual at first and then things escalated?  
  
_Then things escalated._

I feel pathetic. Disgusted. It’s obvious she doesn’t believe me. As if I’ve been in some kind of casual sex act that just went a little wrong. The more I try to answer, the more words I say, the less I feel believed.   
  
After I’ve forced myself to remember, made myself talk about it to a complete stranger, I’m told these cases are hard to solve. And DNA results aren’t enough to prove someone guilty. I didn’t fight back, right? And I’m married. Was I out for some fun behind my partner’s back?  
  
_Partner._   
  
I shut down. Don’t know how, I just do. The officer’s voice fades and I close my eyes. It’s so unreal, I feel like I’m kinda outside the situation, not looking but waiting. For that woman to leave. For this to stop. For not remembering the things they need to hear in order to punish my rapists. A gay man is always up for sex with any man at any point. A gay man is most likely cheating on his husband. A man who has a woman’s juices on his cock, wanted them there. A man getting it up is always horny, always ready to fuck the nearest available hole. A gay man that doesn’t turn completely limp the same second a woman starts riding him, is probably bi. An asexual man suddenly turns sexual. And willing.   
  
If the condition I was found in isn’t enough to be taken seriously, I don’t want to know how it is for those who report with less physical evidence. I was found bleeding on the side of the road, shoeless and my t-shirt ripped. I didn’t even come in by myself, someone called an ambulance. If I’d not been able to crawl and I’d been left even further from the road I might have died.  
  
My emotions must be completely out of function right now. I literally can’t feel anything inside. I’ve gone from feeling pathetic to feel empty. The only thing reminding me I’m actually here, is Billy. I don’t know when the officer left or when my husband came back. When I don’t answer his question, he doesn’t push.   
  
They let him stay. Don’t know what he said to make them change, but he’s here. And when we’re alone, he sits on the bed.  
  
”Can I hold you, hon?”  
  
I nod. Too tired to speak. Have nothing to say. They took my words too.  
  
He cradles me like before. Slowly, patient and careful. Everything other people have not been with me since that drink. I don’t cry. I’m not afraid, or safe. I’m just a body, popped with pills, stitched up and put in bed rest under supervision.   
  
My head on his arm. Face on his heart. If I had any words left, I would beg for him to hide me. But I don’t need words with him now. He knows and so he hides me. Uses his body as a protection and for a moment, my clouded brain finds a sliver of the old feeling his physical presence, our closeness in the open, has given me ever since the Keep Of Kalessin concert we went to. We’d been together for five months and for the first time ever with a date or boyfriend on a concert, I felt completely safe. I just knew he wouldn’t let anyone bother me. Knew that very few people would be stupid enough to bother him.  
  
I know he blames himself for not protecting me from this, even if it’s fucking absurd. And I cry because I know I was never safe to begin with. Because I should’ve known that this could happen. That I’m partly to blame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Ned "knowing" he is "partly to blame" is, of course, the shame and the rape culture speaking and has nothing to do with actual guilt. The only people who are to blame here, are those who committed the crime, that's this story's opinion - and that should be the only opinion.


	9. Billy (3rd person)

They all gather up around him. He doesn’t have to explain anything and their questions are few. John has his sparekeys and takes care of the mail and plants. They still exist, somehow. Jacob is a mess of guilt and when Ben shows up at the hospital, he’s alone. He can’t see Ned, he’s sleeping,  but Billy realises he’s really there to see him. Ned’s best friend from the theatre group has his hair in a scruffy bun in the neck and cinnamon rolls with him. Flowers are not allowed in the ward and Billy leaves Ned’s side to have a coffee in the corridor.   
  
Ben’s been crying, that’s obvious and Billy realises he hasn’t been talking to anyone but Ned, the hospital staff and John for days. He takes a bite from the pastry, swallowing it down with coffee. Before Ben has a chance to start, Billy does it for him.  
  
”How’s Jacob?”  
”He’ll be fine. It’s not he who…”  
”It wasn’t his fault.”  
  
Realising Billy understands Jacob’s absence, makes Ben visibly more relaxed. He nods.  
  
”I’ll tell him that.”  
  
Ned’s friend who’s also become Billy’s, rubs his face.  
  
”Do they know who did it?”  
”Two men and one woman.”  
”Good God…”  
”But it’s blurry.”  
  
He sounds indifferent. Cold even and that scares him. Then, as if he understands, Ben simply pulls him close in a hug. And Billy breaks. He’s not cried since meeting the assholish doctor, his entire mind has been set on keeping his own shit together enough to be the husband Ned needs now. Bawling in Ben’s arms is a much needed outlet.   
  
Eventually, when he calms down a little, Ben tugs a little at his arm, making him sit down. The blonde man from Ned’s theatre group hands him a pack of tissues. Billy blows his nose.  
  
”What day is it?”  
”Wednesday.”  
”Fuck… I look like shit, right?”  
”Pretty much.”  
  
Ben’s smile is weak, but warm and Billy finds himself managing something close to a smile for the first time in days. He’s lost track of time, but he’s been here four days already? Here or sleeping in his car on the parking lot. He must be reeking.   
  
His husband’s best friend sighs.   
  
”Look, Billy, don’t get mad now, but you really need to have a shower and change clothes, or they’ll throw you out for being a threat to the patients.”  
  
He’s right. Of course he is. Billy grits his teeth.  
  
”I can’t…”  
”Leave him alone, I know. But what if I stay?”  
”You?”  
  
Billy doesn’t mean to sound like he didn’t count on the support but Ben’s married too and just smiles.  
  
”Honey, why don’t you let me call John for you? Let him or James pick you up, get home and have a shower, eat something and get some sleep in an actual bed.”  
  
It’s the only reasonable thing to do, but the thought of Ned waking up and… Billy finds himself gnawing on his knuckles and Ben simply takes his wrist and makes him stop.   
  
”I’m staying with him, Billy. He’s my best friend, you know…”  
”I know, just… don’t… what if he wakes up and…”  
”Then I’ll be there, telling him you’re asleep and offer to call you. Alright?”  
  
Ben sounds calm. Steady and definately more useful than Billy right now. Billy nods.  
  
”Just promise you’ll call me at any hour if anything changes. If I found out…”  
”I promise. Just call John, alright? Get a shower and some sleep. And eat something. You’re not helping him by not giving a shit about yourself, you know.”   
  
Ben’s right. But when Billy goes outside to call John, it still feels like he’s about to abandon his husband.


	10. Billy (1st person)

John picks me up but he doesn’t take me home.  
  
”James’ cooking for us so I packed you a bag.”  
  
I should be furious for him going through my stuff, for sticking his hands in my wardrobe. No one’s allowed in our bedroom. He must see what I’m thinking because he holds up a hand.  
  
”You had clean clothes hanging to dry in your laundry room. I didn’t go upstairs.”  
”Thanks.”  
  
No, I shouldn’t be furious. Not even if he’d went upstairs, but I’m ridiculously relieved he didn’t. It’s not as if me and Ned have anything weird to hide up there. It’s just our one private area. For the three years we’ve been married, no one’s set foot up there but us.  
  
I’m crying. Again. Have been awake for too long, I can’t think properly and being reminded of home, where we should’ve been right now, just doing our usual stuff is simply too much. John just takes my hand, he’s a good driver anyway. Doesn’t have to use both hands at all. Why am I paying attention to this? John’s hand is comforting thou.  
  
When we arrive to his and James’ flat, I can’t make myself leave the car. Want to pull myself together first but I can’t. I’m just a mess of fucking tears and sounds. John just sits with me, without talking, until the exhaustion puts an end to the worst fucking outburst of sobs. He squeezes my hand.  
  
”Lets get inside, hon.”  
  
We take the elevator to fifth floor and the flat that smells from lasagna and James’ three thousand or something plants. He comes out in the hallway, giving me a hug and John a kiss on the curls.  
  
”Dinner’s ready in ten minutes.”  
  
John nods at me.  
  
”Take a shower, Billy. There are clean towels on the shelf.”  
  
I don’t realise just how dirty I am until I step inside the shower. I scrub myself like I’ve been rolling around in the mud from a soccer practise in rain, it almost feels like I’m moulting.  
  
When I’m done, I go through the bag John packed for me and put clean clothes on before I go to the kitchen. John’s setting the table and James’ making a salad. When he sees me, he pours some wine in a glass but I shake my head.  
  
”I shouldn’t. Thanks, but I really…”  
”You plan on driving, or what? Not gonna happen.”  
  
John doesn’t even look at me and James rasises his eyebrows.  
  
”He’s right. You’re not driving anywhere, we’re driving you. You’ve not slept for almost fortyeight hours.”  
”I’ve slept a little…”  
  
There’s really no strenght in my protest and the rest of it dies from my lips. I take the offered glass.  
  
The dinner is delicious. Unlike John, James is a really good cook, and I’ve only had some mouthfuls of packed sandwiches and coffee from the hospital cafeteria the last days. The lasagna, the warm kitchen, the potted plants on the windowsill and the well-used china… It’s homey and I’m grateful I’m out of tears, because otherwise I would start crying all over again.  
  
Because this is the life we’re living. The life we _were_ living. Husbands sharing everyday life together. I should be making this lasagna, setting the table in our kitchen, waiting for Ned to come home from work or theatre group. I should open the bottle of wine, hearing him open the door and go out to kiss him. He should grunt a little because I can lift him up so easily, then kiss my hair because in my arms he can do that when I’m standing.  
  
”Billy…?”  
  
I’m snatched back to reality by John’s voice and the lasagna James’ just taking out of the oven. I force myself to not start crying again and even try to make something like a smile.  
  
”It smells delicious.”


	11. Ned (3rd person)

”Hey, babe…”  
  
The voice. He can reckognize it even in his sleep now and the path from sleep to wake is the smoothest in days. Ned pulls the scent of his husband deep into his lungs and opens his eyes. The light in the room is not too sharp and Billy’s blue eyes are looking back at him. Ned reaches for him.  
  
”Ye’re here…”  
”Of course I’m here.”  
  
Billy carefully wraps his arms around him and pulls him up from the laying position to his arms. It’s like coming home. Ned has slept quite well this night. The meds worked and now his husband sits by his side, holding him again. Ned tugs a little at Billy’s hoodie.  
  
”Ye’ve been home, right?”  
”They forced me. Had to shower and sleep… I’m sorry, Ned, I…”  
”It’s okay.”  
”Brought some stuff with me. Clothes and other things.”  
  
Ned smiles at him.  
  
”Ye don’t like me current outfit?”  
”Not really your colours.”  
  
The world is very clouded today. At least Ned’s. He doesn’t feel much except from relief that Billy’s there. The silver link around his neck makes him search for his own, but there is none and he draws breath sharply when he realises his rings are missing too.  
  
”What is it, Ned?”  
”Me rings… They’re gone! And me necklace…”  
”No, they’re not, hon. I have them right here.”  
  
Billy searches under his t-shirt and reveals the hidden link with two rings attached to it.   
  
”See?”  
”Thought they took them…”  
”The staff?”  
”No. _They_.”  
  
 Billy swallows.  
  
”You… you remember more?”  
”Aye.”  
  
A confirmation, nothing more, and Billy realises it’s not the right time to push. He just strokes Ned’s hair.   
  
”Okay.”  
  
Ned leans further into him and Billy buries his nose in the hair.  
  
”I love you. You know that, right?”  
”Of course I know. Love ye too, muppet…”  
  
But what he knows that his husband doesn’t, is something he could never share with anyone. Not even him. Because Ned can’t remember fighting back.


	12. Billy (3rd person)

The softness of his husband’s body never ceases to amaze him. His little theatre monkey, lithe, strong and flexible. The light skin, now damaged with bruises and wounds. It will heal. Ned will heal. He must. There’s no other option.  
  
Ned is sleeping again and Billy allows himself to dream. Of healing but mostly vengeance. He doesn’t know what the officers who did the first interview with his husband found out, but they’ll be back again now as Ned remembers more. The doc, Alfred Hamilton, passed by to tell him just as Ned had fallen back to sleep again. The old man had the same disapproving eyes as earlier. A man holding another man in his arms is still a problem even for some people in the healthcare.  
  
Apart from that asshole, the staff is nice. Especially the nurse who’s adjusting Ned’s IV, Muldoon, is nothing but an angel. He’s so gentle with Ned, patient and calm and never tries to make Billy leave the room if it’s not necessairy. Now he’s tapping with his finger on the tube and Billy gets worried.  
  
”Is something wrong?”  
”Not at all. We always tap a little to make sure it works. And it does.”  
  
His smile is friendly, so are his brown eyes. Billy swallows.  
  
”When… when can he leave?”  
”I can’t answer that. His fever has decreased but the pneumonia is quite serious.”  
”And the wounds?”  
  
Nurse Muldoon – strange name by the way – is done with the IV and nods at Billy to go to the door. Billy follows him but not outside, so Muldoon has to whisper.  
  
”He will heal, eventually, but it will take time. Does he have any other family here that…?”  
”They live in Ireland. And Australia.”  
”Have you been in touch with them?”  
”No.”  
  
When was he supposed to do that? He’s barely been able to talk to the staff until just recently. Phelan and Elan… Billy just don’t know how to tell them what’s happened. Elan will get hysterical and Billy can’t take that. Even less can he deal with Phelan. Ned’s not been in touch with him since he refused to answer the wedding invitation. He doesn’t even mention him if he doesn’t have to. There’s no comfort to get from that man.  
  
”Should I tell them?”  
”Has Ned said anything about it?”  
”No.”  
”Then ask him. You don’t have to tell anyone what’s happened. You could say it’s just pneumonia.”  
  
Billy nods. That sounds reasonable.  
  
”When would the officers come?”  
”After lunch, I think.”  
”Can I stay with him then?”  
”If he wants to.”  
  
This nurse Muldoon is right now the only one in the staff who speaks of Ned as if his will counts. At least to Billy and it makes it easier. Not barable, but at least not heavier.  
  
”He didn’t deserve this…”  
  
Words unbidden, Billy hardly realises he’s speaking them. Muldoon puts a hand on his shoulder.  
  
”No, he didn’t. No one deserves this, Billy, but it’s very common for victims to blame themselves.”  
”I know.”  
”Guilt, shame, self-hate… The best you can do to support your husband now, is to just be there. To be left alone with those feelings, that’s the worst part. Ned’s the victim here, as are you.”  
  
He’s not been thinking about himself as a victim, but this nurse Muldoon with the shiny head and brown eyes is right. Billy’s been injured too from this. And to see the one you love more than anything in the world suffer, knowing you couldn’t prevent it, is torment.  


	13. Ned (1st person)

They keep coming back to how much I had to drink. What I was wearing. Keep saying this is a very rare case. Yes, I’m a case. Not rare as in a protected fucking species but as in more difficult work for the police. And I know they don’t trust me.  
  
Forcing yourself to remember things you want to forget, just to have them questioned as you’re still forced to lay on the side while talking to fucking police because someone riding you and then putting cock in your ass without question or lube is one of the most humiliating things I’ve experienced. I remember, vaguely, a woman or maybe two, riding me and I can’t look at the polices I’m telling this. It’s the one who was here earlier and another one, a man.  
  
They don’t allow Billy in here, but one of the nurses stays with me. A bald man with beard and tattoos on his hands. When the male police says I don’t have to worry about them telling my husband if I’ve been out in an arrend I want to keep secret, I expect myself to scream and tell them to go fuck themselves, but all that’s leaving me is a lifeless ”have nothing to hide” and with that I’m done with this. I feel picked apart and found disappointing. Weak and pathetic. Disgusting. A drunken, one-eyed Irish gay who got careless and got what he deserved. A waste of time for the police. And I keep fucking coughing which makes one particular wound hurt worse.  
  
I remember. Don’t remember. Try to forget because while I help the police, I feel less and less helped myself. I turn my head away again and the nurse takes over.  
  
”I think we must stop here.”  
”But we only have…”  
”He’s already answered a lot and now he has to rest.”  
  
I suddenly love this tattoed nurse, who’s forcing the officers to leave and then allows Billy back inside. My giant husband with blue eyes that always look too innocent when he’s confused. Now they’re mostly worried and he sits down by me and takes my hand.  
  
”How are you feeling?”  
”Tired.”  
  
If I say more he’ll only run after the officer and yell. I know my husband and if there’s ever a time when he looses his shits, it’s if someone he cares for gets hurt and he feels helpless.  
  
”C’mere, babe…”  
  
Me in his arms. I’m crying and didn’t even notice until now. Shaking too. But he’s here, he’s not leaving me despite the shame that’s burning inside me.  
  
”I didn’t… Didn’t want this…”  
  
He just pulls me closer to him and I feel his lips against my skin.  
  
”You think I believed that, Ned? That I thought you _wanted_ that?”  
”Don’t yell at me!”  
”Fuck… Fuck, I’m sorry, hon. I didn’t mean to, sweetheart, I’m just so… Want to fucking kill those who did this to you.”  
  
I don’t deserve this man. I was careless, thought I was protected because I’m a fucking man and men don’t get raped. At least not if you’re to believe the police. Have they asked Billy if he thinks I’ve cheated on him? The very thought makes my stomach crunch and I want to tell him I’d never do such a thing, but before I do that, I realise saying that would only sound more suspicious. To defend myself against something he’s not accused me for.  
  
I cry. Of all the things I remember and don’t remember, cheating on my husband is the last thing I could imagine myself doing. I have no memory of doing anything of that willingly and all the things I do remember, involves pain and fear.  
  
Why didn’t I say no? Or did I, only I don’t remember how? I had another persons skin and blood under my nails. There was blood on my ripped clothes and I can’t sit, can’t lay on my back, can’t take care of my own body without help and I want to disappear. Want them to let that needle give me sleep and take my memory again.


	14. Billy (1st person)

Feels as if everyone knows. People from your work and the theatre have sent flowers. _Get well soon, we miss ye!_ _We want our Shakespeare sham back!_ The Irish slang on the cards reminds me that you’re liked. By your co-workers, your theatre group. Of course, there’s nothing on the cards that says they know, but the newspapers have been helpful.  
  
You’re no longer news and I’m relieved but also offended. Knowing that a human’s suffering can be measured in tabloids. I hated the attention and I don’t want it back, but even when you don’t cover the tabloids anymore, you still suffer. Even if it doesn’t sell.  
  
You’ve hardly spoken since the police heard you. Since you asked me not to yell. And the police have no leads. The only good thing now, is that your wounds are healing. But the pain you’re in is visible and I keep asking the nurses if there’s nothing more they can do but the doctor says it’s not necessairy to change anything and the other staff can’t do it without permission from him.  
  
For three more days, I watch you float in and out of worried sleep, half-sleep and wake. I hear you cry from the bathroom as I wait in the corridor while the staff do what they can to ease the worst. They’re kind people and professionals. They know what they’re doing and I must trust them, but it’s so fucking hard to see and hear your pain. Why can’t they give you more painkillers? More sedatives? Seeing you like this is torment.  
  
Saturday morning, I’ve had enough. When I come to the hospital, you’re laying in fetus position, whimpering and with your hands clutched around the sheet. I call the nurse and she says the doc is on his way. My heart just sinks. I hate that Hamilton guy and he hates us both. I imagine he’s rough and careless with you if I’m not around but when the door opens, it’s not him, but a man I’ve never seen before and he turns directly to you.  
  
”Hi, Ned, I’m doctor Howell. How are you feeling today?”  
  
He sits down beside you, takes your hand and talks calmy and friendly to you. I don’t want to interrupt but I’m so scared he wont give you something for the pain.  
  
”Can’t you give him something?”  
”I will increase the morphine and the diazepam immediately. These dozes are far too low.”  
  
He sounds displeased, but not like the other doctor and he mutters as he gives new dozes for the nurse to get, mutters while listening to your heart and lungs and checking the list for your pulse and blood pressure while the nurse goes to get the meds.  
  
”This is just unbelievably stupid…”  
”What?”  
  
It’s more of a moan than a word, but the doc hears it and he puts down his stethoscope and takes your hand.  
  
”Doctor Hamilton has put you on too little medicine, Ned, but I will increase the doze now and you’ll feel better soon, I promise.”  
  
He keeps talking to you, holds your hand and his eyes are as calm and friendly as that nurse Muldoon’s. When the other nurse comes back with the meds, the doc injects them directly in the porth-a-cath before adjusting the IV. It only takes minutes before you’re relaxed again and I must force myself not to kiss this doctor with the short, brown ponytail.  
  
You doze off so quickly I realise your body and mind must’ve screamed for real rest for days and when the doc takes time to adjust your blanket I start crying.  
  
”I must finish the round, but I would like to have a word with you later, Billy is it?”  
”Yeah.”  
”Is that alright with you?”  
  
I nod. Of course it’s alright. I could kiss him right now.


	15. Ned (3rd person)

He doesn’t want to be touched now. Not even by Billy. Everytime someone puts hands on him, he freezes. He allows them to do what they must, doesn’t fight back when they do their work, but the moment the necessairy things are done, he goes from frozen to fighting back. Shoving hands off as soon as possible, turning away and making distance. It hurts Billy. Hurts Ned too, but right now the alert part of his mind is focused on not loosing it and he doesn’t realise how the distance increases between him and his husband.  
  
The intimacy of minds is everything to them. The years that have passed since their first online chat, their first coffee, first kiss, their engagement… all the conversations about high and low they’ve shared together are all among the happiest moments in Ned’s life. If there is something as a non-sexual orgasm, those moments when they’ve reached an unexpetced, exciting or just damn fucking pleasant point in a discussion, certainly must be it.  
  
Him and Billy, challenging each other almost to the point of pissing each other off, just to see where their thoughts end up. If they’ll intertwine or pull apart. They’ve turned down seeing friends because they’ve been so caught up in a conversation on a Saturday night that going out seems like a giant step down. Some nights, they’ve gone to bed hoarse from endless talking and the next day they just float around in silence. And then the cuddles… Ned doesn’t want to think about them now, but his mind wont let him off this time. His thoughts search for the memory of things he can’t have now.  
  
Nights spent kissing under the covers, mornings waking up with sore lips and intertwine limbs. They never cuddle completely naked, haven’t done since the one time they tried it on that hot summers night about a year and a half after their wedding. A one time thing that was more about confirming safety, knowing they could show themselves naked without fear. They have all the skin they want with underwears on. To be deprived of that closeness is painful, but the absence of Billy’s heart and mind is digging holes in Ned now. Holes he can’t make himself fill by opening up.  
  
Knowing it’s not good to shut down like this, doesn’t matter. Talking to the officers has very effectively teared down any defence against the memories from the assault whenever Ned’s not knocked out by sedatives. The hearings have made it much more difficult to force the thoughts away, to stop them from wander. And they repeat themselves, like scenes from a horror movie.  
  
There are arms around his shoulders. Friendly, drunken arms. Laughters and talking. And then the world goes blurry. He knows he’s leaving the pub with them, but he can’t remember why. A smoke, perhaps? He smokes on occasion if he goes out. Or just having some fresh air? It was hot inside that pub… too hot. That he remembers. _You’re married? Who’s the lucky one? She’d better keep watch over such a pretty guy…_  
  
”Ned? Darling?”  
  
Hands. Ned screams. Fights with the hands from his nightmare, pulling hair. Two women, one blonde and one brownhaired.  And one man, also brown hair. Blue eyes. They’re all strangers to him, yet the man somehow seems familiar. And in the space between nightmare and wake, all hands belong to them.  
  
Ned wants to wake up, desperately, but the nightmare clings on, forcing smells from perfume, aftershave and foggy nightair onto him. The weight of bodies, scrapings against a snowy road. The taste of blood. _Say hello to Billy._  
  
”Ned? Ned! Can you hear me, babe? Nurse!”  
  
_Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. Please, don’t..._  
  
More hands, impossible to connect with faces, holding him down again and he can hear Billy, but why doesn’t he help him? His strong husband could easily fight them off, but all he does is talking.  
  
”It’s alright, Ned, you’re having a nightmare… I’m here, babe, it will feel better soon.”  
  
And Ned cries, because his husband has never lied to him before.


	16. Billy (3rd person)

”For how long have you been married?”  
”Three years.”  
  
It’s not at all as with the other doc or the police. It’s just a conversation beginning with other things than the rape and their sexuality. What do they do for a living? How’s their daily life? Billy tells about Ned’s job at the library, his theatre group and the house and garden they both love to work with. He tells about his own job as an assembly technician, the soccer and workout. He tells about Ned’s love for black metal and then he remembers the concert Ned didn’t come home from and he starts crying.  
  
He’s not sure why it all comes out so easy, but it does and doctor Howell has a lot of tissues and even more compassion. This man doesn’t question their relationship at all and when Billy tells him they’re ace, he just nods.  
  
”Every couple is different and sex is certainly not for everyone.”  
  
It almost reminds him of when he came out for Charles. No big deal at all. And so he repeats what he told the other doctor, about why he think Ned was attacked and the doc just nods.  
  
”I don’t know of any official statistics when it comes to hate crimes against asexuals, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. It’s a sexual minority and we know that any minority is more exposed to hate crimes, especially when it comes to sexual orientations and gender identities.”  
  
Reckognition. Acceptance. The nonexisting judgement. One more person here who sees Ned as a human being. Someone who found him worthy of meds that work. The last panic attack disappeared so much faster Billy hardly believed his eyes. Knowing his husband is sleeping calmly without pain in either body or mind to torment him, is a huge comfort. The first Billy’s felt since the call from the ER.  
  
”They just left him there. In the snow…”  
  
The cruelty, the indifference in not even letting him keep his outwear feels almost worse than the rape. His husband treated like something less than a human. The old, almost wornout Dr. Martens, his socks, the green parka and his knitted scarf. All found thrown in the ditch almost half a mile from where he was wandering around because he was still numb from the cold and that saved his life.  
  
”What was the fucking point in that?!”  
  
He still looks for it. A reason. Something, _anything_ that can explain this. Treating his husband, his heart like garbage. The violence clearly unnecessairy since he was drugged. Why? Hatecrime, is the doc’s answer and an answer that only brings up more questions. As in how did they know? Did Ned tell them or did they know he was ace in some weird way? He doesn’t even have Facebook. The doc hands over another tissue.  
  
”Who else knew about your orientation?”  
  
Billy shrugs, angrily wiping his tears. Friends know. It’s not a secret if people ask, but they don’t show it. No signs online about it, likes on Facebook pages for ace people, nothing at all. They’re private, that’s just how they prefer it. Of course, since they’re married it’s no secret they’re gay, but for some reason Billy doesn’t think that has anything to do with this.  
  
”Any ex-partners?”  
  
Exes? Billy’s not even thought about that possibility but it’s not as if any of them have dated psychopaths or stalkers in the past. On the other hand, there’s been a couple of guys who’ve been less than understanding when it comes to their orientation… But Billy’s never met any of Ned’s exes.  
  
”I don’t think so.”  
”What about yours?”  
”Mine?”  
”Any ex-partners that might have been violent or holding a grudge?”  
  
That’s insane. Right? Billy just stares at the doc, but the man looks completely serious.  
  
”In most cases, the victim knows the rapist, Billy.”  
”Ned’s never met any of my exes and Woodes was an asshole but he would never do something like this.”  
”Woodes is an ex partner of yours?”  
”Yes.”  
  
Billy bites his lip.  
  
”He started spreading rumors about Ned some months after we became a couple.”  
”What kind of rumors?”  
”Nothing serious, really. Just stupid stuff about Ned being a former gang member because of his eye and shit like that. Nothing that wasn’t easy to check and then he outed us on a party. I was there and I punched him. Haven’t seen him since and that’s ages ago. Ned and I had been together for like six months.”  
”Your ex boyfriend, did it end close to your relationship with Ned?”  
”No. I broke up with Woodes about three years earlier. Wait… you don’t think _he_ has anything to do with this?”  
  
The last days fucked up cloud of erratic thoughts, worry, grief and frustration has not given much room for clear thinking and Billy’s head is spinning. The doc makes a calming gesture.  
  
”All I’m saying, Billy, is that in most cases of rape, the victim knows the attacker. It may be someone close or just an acquaintance…”  
  
The doc’s voice fades away. Woodes? Could he…? No, that’s impossible. Woodes is not that kind of guy, the very thought is just… And there were women too! It was one man and two women doing this to Ned. Billy swallows.  
  
“He can’t have done this. He’s not like that.”  
“Like what?”  
“Woodes isn’t some kind of creep, doc. He’s an asshole, but not…”  
  
The doc sighs.  
  
“Look, I know this is a very unpleasent subject, but it’s necessairy for you to think about this if we’re to help Ned. Just talking about possible attackers, is not the same as accusing them.”  
“But Woodes wouldn’t… He’s not that kind of guy.”  
“Most of them aren’t.”  
  
Billy looks up, puzzled, and the doc hands him the box of tissues again.  
  
“Most rapists, Billy, doesn’t look or behave any different from you and I in daily life. It’s not the stereotypical crazy guy in the basement, sneaking up behind the bushes. The one thing connecting them, is that they feel entitled to use other people in order to satisfy their needs.”  
“Then why not just go on a fucking sex site and look for a bloke?”  
“Because the attack is rarely about a desperate need for sex, but for power. Over the victim and his or her life. In some cases also over his or her loved ones.”  
  
He feels sick. Woodes couldn’t have done this? Could he?


	17. Ned (1st person)

Whatever shit they’re giving me, it works. I hardly feel any pain, or anything else. Neither good nor bad things. But the memories wont go away. I can see their faces, hear their voices, but their hands are missing when I sleep. All three faces are still unfamiliar to me, I know I’ve not met any of them before. So why did I go with them? I must’ve left with them freely. There’s no way I could’ve been dragged out from a pub against my will without someone noticing.  
  
I want him here. I don’t want him here. The worried face, the dark rings under his eyes, the way his hands fidget when they don’t hold me. And right now I don’t want to be hold. It pains him, but the moment I close my eyes, they’re not his hands anymore.  
  
I try to recall how they feel. Big, careful and soft. Hard too, but never with me. The last three years I’ve went to sleep and woke up, spooned in those arms, held by those hands almost every night. Our need for separate beds has been smaller than we expected and whenever any of us has been away, not sleeping at home, it’s felt so fucking empty. It took a long time to come to that level of complete fucking trust and comfort and now that’s gone. I can’t remember how my own husband’s hands feel anymore and it’s not his face that’s the last thing I see before I sleep.  
  
With a little help, at least I can go to the bathroom on my own now. Even shower. And eat. I’m not hungry and the hospital food tastes like paper and woll but if I don’t eat, my husband’s eyes will never stop looking at me like he’s afraid I’m about to starve to death and that’s a look I can’t stand.  
  
So yes, I eat. I accept some help. Take my meds. Let them know if I listen or not. But the questions they don’t ask, especially not my husband, are written all over them and I have no fucking answers to give. No one can know because I can’t let Billy believe his ex did this, especially when I don’t know if I can trust my memory.  
  
How did I end up in their car? The question that’s never far away is if I did more things than just following them out from the bar willingly. But why would I? I don’t even like sex. I’ve never liked it no matter if I’ve been sober or shitfaced but the officer’s words about things I might not want my husband to know, wont leave me.  
  
”Ned? Sweetheart…”  
”Go.”  
  
I can feel his hand going still in the air, falling back without finishing the touch that should be right but isn’t. I don’t want my husband’s hands on me now. I want to want them, and the emptiness the non-existing touch leaves is filling the room.  
  
He respects me. My wishes. My body. As he always does. Always has. The door is silent as he leaves and I pretend I can breathe again, even if the reasone for doing it has walked away.  
  
_Say hello to Billy._  
  
I can’t say anything and that’s why I hope I’ll never remember. If I don’t, then I can’t tell. And if I can’t tell because I really don’t know, then I don’t have to lie.  
  
I close my eyes and try to think of home. I miss it. Miss my room, the space no one can enter without permission. Miss my bed. And ours. But now I mostly miss my own. I miss the grey wollen blanket I wrap around me when I read, the old lamp on the nightstand and the cherrytree outside my window. Miss the smell of candles and the incense Billy’s forbidden me to spread in the rest of the house.  
  
I miss laying on my bed, reading and listening to Bathory and Gehenna. Miss the careful knock on the door and my husband not coming in, only standing in the doorway with the tea cup he knows I want but have forgotten about. Miss how he puts it on the floor and smiles at me, knowing I’m not really present because I’m lost in whatever world I’ve opened. How I smile back and he closes the door, not a single word exchanged because it’s not necessairy.  
  
I miss putting the book down to get the cup, smelling elderflowers, lemon and then taste the sliver of honey he knows I want in my tea, seeing the folded paper on the small plate under the cup with a time-limit written. Two hours. Two and a half. So I know how long until I must get out from my nest. I miss setting the alarm, because time ceases to exist when I read and I need ten minutes to just land in the now again.  
  
I miss losing myself in my book again, sipping tea and then being called back to the now by the alarm and the smell of food searching it’s way up from the kitchen. Then I leave the book and that part of my world to go downstairs. To our world. And I miss seeing him cooking, just sneaking up behind and put my arms around him, my face between his shoulders and just pull his scent into my lungs. How safe and happy he makes me feel when he turns around and holds me. How it used to feel and doesn’t feel anymore.  
  
I’ve lost us.


	18. Billy (1st person)

You’re healing by every day. I hear them say it, try to believe it, to see your refusal of help as a sign of improvement. As soon as you feel you can do something on your own, you force people away. You refuse to go to the bathroom, change clothes or take a shower unless you can be alone with the door closed. Can’t say I don’t understand that but it takes a long time, gives you more pain and you’re a bit unsteady on your feet.  
  
I feel so helpless. You’re shutting me and everyone else out completely. Everytime someone gets even close to talk about the reason you’re in this bed, you disappear. Literally. You just turn your head away from the person until he or she leaves. It’s like having a door slammed in my face.  
  
Dr. Howell doesn’t work every day. He’s one of those doctor’s covering for others and today, that Hamilton guy is back. I want to scream when he says you’re fit to leave. How is this, your current state of just doing as you’re told but refusing to communicate with words or accepting any touch that’s not necessairy, fit to leave? And why hasn’t the police been in touch? I try to ask Dr. Hamilton, but he doesn’t know. Doesn’t care either, from what I’ve seen. When I help you to pack your things, he comes to give you a prescription for painkillers, sleeping pills and something for anxiety. I want to ask if he could give you something that makes you talk.  
  
There’s nothing more. No mention of support, or where to go if you feel worse. Oh, right, you should ”call your doctor” on our health centre. You make a small nod and I want to cry. Because if you don’t talk about it here, how would you be able to make a phone call to yet another person when the chance of him or her being a Dr. Howell and not a Dr. Hamilton feels less than likely.   
  
You walk out on crutches and I carry your bag and the meds we just fetched at the hospital pharmacy. I think you know I wont let you handle these on your own because this is heavy stuff and I don’t trust your memories or pain not to take over. I know you want to forget and no matter how much I wish we both could do that, it wont happen and I don’t want you further damaged by overdozing pills. When we walk to the car, I open the door for you and as I move to help you inside you hiss.  
  
”If I need help, I’ll ask for it!”  
  
If that was true, we’d be on a psychiatric ward now, but I don’t say that. I force myself not to help when you sit down. I even stop myself from closing the door for you. Instead I get in the drivers seat and wait. When you’re ready, I don’t turn the key and you sigh.  
  
”What is it?”  
”We need to speak with the police again.”  
” _We?_ ”  
  
The sarcastic tone is almost hostile and I can see you’re clutching the fabric of your jeans. My impulse to take your hand dies with your word.  
  
”Don’t.”  
  
Am I supposed to teach myself to stop touching you completely? I realise, on some level, that rape can do this to a person and that this doesn’t mean you don’t want it to be different, but it still hurts.  
  
I drive us home in silence. You’re tired from that short walk to the car and you had meds just an hour ago. I’ve not read the whole table of contents on your meds, but I do know they all have tiredness as a side effect. Not sure if that’s good or not when it comes to you. Sure, it makes you less tense and that helps your body recover, but as painful as it is seeing you on crutches and forcing yourself not to make a grimaze when you sit down, so is seeing you so shut down. I try to talk as we’re stopping for a red light.  
  
”What would you like for dinner tonight?”  
”Doesn’t matter.”  
”Potato gratin?”  
”Sure.”  
  
You couldn’t care less. 


	19. Ned (3rd person)

Meeting Billy, marrying Billy is probably the happiest thing ever happened to Ned. Sure, they have their ups and downs just like any other couple, but it’s been a far smoother ride than any of them dared to hope for. With Billy, Ned feels loved and beautiful for real.  
  
Billy can look at Ned and see all of him. It feels in his gaze and his smiles. His hands can search without intrude. And under his hands, in his eyes, a shitty day or unbidden thoughts about failures or flaws can fade to nothing. No matter what, some tension, worry or frustration seems to go away just from one of those looks. A silent comfort to create a shield from things outside their safe space. And Ned feels seen, heard, wanted and loved. Or felt.  
  
They’re having dinner by the telly. Usually they eat in the kitchen, but tonight Billy’s made a tray and put on _Shameless_ , the American series. Without asking, he guesses Ned isn’t really up for a conversation tonight and eating in silence, facing each other while just hearing the knives and forks scraping against their plates would be fucking torture now. Ned loves him for knowing that, and hates it too. That his husband can guess right about something before Ned’s even thought about it.   
  
The potato gratin is good. It’s always good. And their sofa is comfortable, their livingroom cosy and yes, everything looks and feels and smells just as it should. The evening light shines through the thin curtains that reveals their garden. It will be spring soon. There are little bags with seeds on the kitchen table for the new garden plot. They’ve made one new plot every spring and this is their third. Herbs this time.   
  
Ned chews and swallows. One bite. Two bites. A sip of water, some salad. He feels the tension from Billy and forces himself to turn around and smile.  
  
”It’s really nice.”  
”Thanks, babe.”  
  
A beer. God, he would like a beer but with these meds it’s probably not a good idea. And his husband would panic. Ned swallows the pills Billy’s put in an eggcup next to his glass. Ned could say that he can manage them on his own, but then he realises he wouldn’t want Billy to do that if their roles were reversed. So he just takes the meds like a good boy and goes back to eat the food.  
  
Homecooked food after the days at the hospital – how many Ned isn’t sure of – is like a feast. And yet so horribly wrong. The bites are growing in his mouth, it’s hard to swallow and he knows Billy’s watching him, trying not to watch him, trying not to show he’s trying not to watch. Ned connects this dish with weekends. With a night at home, just the two of them watching movies and playing video games or chess. Drinking beer, not club soda.   
  
He needs to forget. There’s no use in walking around with a memory he can’t share. A memory of the man who once had his husband in bed. Of the women and their laughs. Ned obliviously presses his palm against his belly. It feels too small for the few bites he’s swallowed. Billy turns to look at him, eyes wide and worried.  
  
”You feel sick, hon?”  
”A little. It’ll pass. Not used to real food yet, I guess.”  
  
His husband should answer that with a hand in Ned’s hair. Or a gentle stroke on his cheek. But this is not as it should and knowing they both try so hard pretending it is, is like being in some kind of claustrophobic roll-playing where the rules are not set and the alternate universe not created by them and completely fucked up.  
  
Eating potato gratin by the telly, should also mean having a beer, chat and touching. Ned leaning against Billy’s shoulder. Billy resting his head in Ned’s lap. Kisses. Tired smiles. Talking about their day, maybe plan the weekend. Ned doesn’t even know what day it is. When is he to go back to work? When’s Billy working? Ned stares at the telly.  
  
”Are ye working tomorrow?”  
”No. I…”  
  
Billy pauses, as if he’s not sure if Ned will like what he says.  
  
”I have some time off. For a while.”  
  
_To look after Ned._ Of course. Ned wants to get angry, but the pills he swallowed twenty minutes ago, are effective and he can’t find any anger. Just weariness. He nods.  
  
”Alright.”  
  
Living with Billy is the best decision Ned’s ever made. Why couldn’t they just have it the way it was? Was it too fucking much to ask? There’s a space between them now. In every way.


	20. Billy (1st person)

You don’t want to talk about it. It’s more than just not wanting. It’s almost like denial. And you can’t stand me. My fussing. I know I’m on the boarder of acting like a mother hen now, but could you blame me? Wouldn’t you do the same if I’d been hurt?  
  
Hurt. In my head I change the words. It’s not on purpose, it just happens. I force myself to change the word inside my head when I realise I’ve tried to make it easier to think. You’ve been raped. That’s why you still need crutches. That’s why you still cough and have a snotty nose. Why I can’t touch or reach you and why I no longer share a bed with you. Our bedroom hasn’t been used for two weeks and I can’t touch you.   
  
On a typical day, I wake up from the sound of your crutches and the shower. That’s good. At least, you’ve not stopped caring about your body. Usually, I take my clothes and get changed in the bathroom downstairs before I start making breakfast. Cooking is calming and I make oatmeal, smoothies or scrambled eggs, mostly because it keeps me more busy. A bowl of cereals gives me too much time to think while you’re in the shower. And I have t admit, I do it to make sure that the small portions you eat, are as healthy as possible.  
  
I make coffee and you come down, hair still a little wet and says your hollow good morning without a kiss or hug. We read news online, so there’s no papers to hide behind, but we have tons of books. Instead of our usual slow, quiet breakfast chat, we read or do crosswords. I keep an eye on you that’s not very visible and you can pretend not seeing it, with your eye fixed on the text or little squares. I serve your meds in an eggcup next to a glass of juice. And the silence, only interrupted by sounds from spoons or chewing teeth, is nothing but awful.  
  
The day then goes on in some kind of thick, yet invisible fog. You help me clear the table, crutches or not, and do the dishes. I only tried to say you didn’t have to once. The look you gave me was a green fucking lightening of ”get out of my face or else” and I dropped the rest of my protest. You do fucking dishes now, chrutches or not. End of story.  
  
I try to do other chores while you’re doing the dishes. Laundry, cleaning and so on. You spend the morning in your room and then come down for lunch, from which you’re eating no more than the breakfast. You’re not starving and I can see you’re doing your best, but it’s still far from enough.   
  
You don’t answer your phone, don’t leave the house and Ben and Idelle soon stop trying to reach you that way and just call me instead. Problem is, I don’t reach you either. Not that I’m not trying. The afternoons are the same silent, numb hell. You do try to do stuff. Folding clean laundry, scrubbing the bathroom sink. Things you can do with crutches.  
  
I deliberately choose dishes that requires extra work. I ask you to peel and chop, grind and mix. Salads, potatos and carrots. Rolling meatballs and lentil burgers. I can’t remember a time where I ate food that required so much work every meal. It’s ridiculous and it’s not us but it works. After lunch you’re exhausted and go to your room for a nap. And I cry.   
  
When I’m sure you’re really asleep, I cry in our laundry room because I’m fucking exhausted too. Then I go for a hike. I don’t dare to stay away too long, but the meds you take at lunch time make you sleep for a couple of hours and I get some escape from this silent hell that’s our life right now. That hike is what stops me from having a breakdown. I get to stretch out, run off some steam and tension and when I get back you’re still asleep, not waking up before I’m out of the shower.   
  
I make us tea and sandwiches, I eat and you try to. I ask what you want for dinner and you never know. What I want to ask, is who took you from me, from yourself, but I know I wont get an answer. Instead, I ask if we could play some tv games. You don’t want to, don’t really want anything, but it gives us both a chance to do something without avoiding each other. Without me wondering what you’re doing and you being aware of that.  
  
There’s no joy or relaxation in it. We just try to make it through the day, counting down the hours. We play until it’s time for dinner and I start preparing it, you join once again with chopping, grinding and mixing while the radio is substitute for our usual conversation.   
  
I eat, you try to, sitting by the telly and watching series to fill out the silence. And you take your meds as a good patient, the weariness kicks in for real and you say your goodnight with a calm, empty voice. The sound from your bedroom door closing for the night, shutting me out, is the last thing I hear from you every night and I want to scream, want to punch the walls and throw our china all around. I want to run upstairs, kick your door open and tell you I’m still here, that we fucking promised for better and for worse and I cant’t stand seeing you so broken, so lonely when I’m here.     
  
Instead, I open my laptop, going through my e-mail and Facebook. Reading news I don’t care about and try to remember the world is going on as usual, but all I see are headlines and articles about rape. As if I’m searching for them obliviously. You’re not alone, I’m not alone. I see proof of that and of victims healing, partners not loosing hope and relationships that survives. I also see those who don’t as well as all the victims who only faced suspicion, blame and guilt from society. That’s when I stop reading and put on a movie to escape.   
  
When I’ve gotten rid of enough tension, I go to bed. But before that, I check on you. I’m pretty sure walking in on you in the darkness isn’t a good idea, but how else can I see if you’re sleeping or just laying in the darkness, alone with your memories.   
  
You’ve stopped sleeping in your bed. You’re just laying on it, dressed and in fetus position. One of your records are on repeat and if I’m sure you’re asleep, I turn it off and leave a note on your nightstand, placed leaned on the glass of water you keep there. Because if you can’t stand me talking to you or touching you, at least you should read it.  
  
That I love you. That’s something no one can take from you. Or me. And that’s why this hurt so much. Why I’m falling down in depths I didn’t know existed within me. All I want is for you to take my hand and if I can’t pull you up, at least be allowed to stay with you in this darkness. You’re fading before me and I’m so afraid my fear of loosing you will make me try and pull you close too quickly. The one thing I live on now is that despite the distance between us, you still trust me enough to stay home, to sleep under the same roof, and that tiny little hope is what I cling onto before the exhaustion finally lets me sleep.


	21. Ned (1st person)

Inside me. Around me. Over me. It comes from nowhere but not at all. I know where it comes from but the shock is no less awful. I scream, claw and rip my clothes and bedlinen. Trash whatever my half-sleeping mind can make my hands reach.   
  
He’s there. Doesn’t care that it takes a while before he’s Billy to me, that I hurt him the moments before my brain finally separates dream from reality. I hit the shadow I see in his place until he holds my hands steady and pulls me close and the voice slowly becomes his again. My husband’s calm, safe voice. His gentle, strong hands. A cradle for the mess that’s me.   
  
”It’s alright, Ned. It’s me, it’s Billy. You’re safe now, it was just a nightmare.”  
  
I rage. It’s ugly and hysterical and I want it to stop. But it just keeps on. And he’s not leaving. Not raising his voice or telling me to stop or talk. He stays with me in the sweat soaked bed, talking softly. Trying to assure me I’m not alone, not to be blamed. That he loves me.   
  
”They can’t hurt you anymore.”  
  
That’s what’s pushing me over the edge, tipping the balance I’ve kept since getting home.   
  
”Then what the fuck do ye call this, huh? Ye call this not fucking hurt?! This is not fucking alright!”  
  
I yell at him, call him names and he just takes it. My endless syllables coming up like pukes and he holds me steady until I’m too exhausted to keep on. I end up a soaked, motionless mass in his arms. When I finally stop raving, he makes me lean my head to his chest and I let him. There are steady heartbeats there, not the erratic slams in my on body. He kisses my hair, my neck.   
  
”I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… I’m here, hon. You’re not alone, you hear me? I’m not leaving you alone with this, we’re two, remember?”  
  
I want to believe him, but one of the assholes who did this to me, to us, once had my husband’s arms around him and the other two… I didn’t even know a woman could do this to a man. Not like that. My body betrayed me and there are still markings on it. Markings Billy’s not seen because why would he? He’s not seen me since last time we took a shower together and that’s a long time ago. We ended up kissing and he washed my hair. My body. I liked it. His hands on me, never crossing the lines. Not even wanting to. Now he’s shushing me softly.  
  
”Nothing of this is your fault, Ned. You didn’t deserve this, you’ve done nothing wrong. It doesn’t fucking matter how drunk you were or if you followed them freely to the car. It doesn’t matter what you were wearing, what fucking orientation you have, what sex you are, you get that? It’s not your damn fault!”  
  
Words. They should mean something, but they’re empty to me. I can’t feel they’re real, but they cut off the rage inside me and all that’s left are fucking tears. I cry and cry, my hands want to claw and he takes them again. Firm but gentle. I know these hands. Can feel they’re his. His skin, his touch, his scent. His voice.  
  
”I got you, babe. I’m not going anywhere, I’m right here…”  
  
For a little while his arms become safe again. I reckognize him, the kindness, the love that follows every touch. But I also remember the faces, the touches and the scents I want to forget. Inside me, around me, all over me.   
  
One of those scents was a once part of him too. For a short while _his_ hands and mouth searched their way over my husband’s body. He’s told me. How he tried to like it, as I tried with other guys. The constant tries to push his boarders. And mine.  
  
_Maybe it will feel different with me? Maybe you’ve just not met the right guy yet? I swear I could make you feel so good… Please? Oh, come on, just a quickie? You make me so hard… Wanna get inside you, babe, I know you’re gonna like it…_  
  
If I tell him who did this, I know he’ll do something stupid and I can’t let that happen. I’ll loose him. He’ll loose everything for defending me and that’s why my lips must stay fucking sealed. My husband must never know who two of the six hands belongs to. Who’s cock trashed my ass to the point that the just about healed wounds can get up again and start bleeding if I’m not careful.  
  
He holds me in his arms, I cling on to him again. Tasting just a hint of safety. Of the time when his arms made me feel safe to the boarder on invulnerable.   
  
”Ned… It can’t go on like this. We must get you help.”  
”There is no help to get with… this.”  
”I don’t believe that. And you can’t expect me to do nothing. I know you wouldn’t be able to just stand by and watch if something happened to me.”  
”Ye can’t do anything…”  
”Yes, I can. I’m here, right?”  
  
He is. So fucking optimistic. And the one face I remember from the night that left me shattered, belongs to Woodes Rogers.


	22. Billy (3rd person)

No, he can’t talk to doctor Howell. He must call the health centre and by the way, is it not better if Ned makes the call himself? Apparently, laying in a little roll on the bed, not speaking or eating and barely moving is not serious enough. The secretary promise she’ll leave a note but Billy can’t count on anything. He takes several deep breaths afterwards before he calls their doctor, who has a time available in a week and suggests Ned should try to go for a walk and get some sunlight. Billy cries when he puts the phone down.  
  
He sinks down on the kitchen chair, just lost in the hopelessness when a loud knock on the door interrupts him. Christ, he’s not left the house for days and noone has been here. He scrambles out in the hallway and opens the door. Charles’ blue eyes goes wide-open and his mouth drops a little.  
  
”Fuck’s sake, Billy…”  
  
Charles’ arms are perfect for a good cry. Not that Billy’s ever been one to let himself loose like that, or even needed it, but when he does, this is the right place for it. They stand in the hallway and Billy’s shaking against his best friend’s shoulder. Charles strokes his back and now, finally, Billy sees Eleanor behind him. She hugs him and her boyfriend from behind, placing a little kiss between Billy’s shoulders.  
  
”Get inside you two.”  
  
Billy’s and Ned’s home is unusually neat and clean, probably because that’s been a way to keep busy these last days. He tries to calm down and points at the stairs.  
  
”He’s asleep. Sorry… you want coffee or something?”  
  
Elle smiles friendly and pats his cheek.  
  
”I can make some if it’s alright with you. We brought chocolate pastries. Oh, and some new tea from Max she thought Ned might like.”  
”You’re angels.”  
  
Ned doesn’t like anything at the moment, but the blackberry tea smells really nice. Billy will make him some later. Elle has already put the coffee on and Charles puts a bag with groceries on the table. Some pasta, chicken, soy milk, bread, cheese and fruit. Billy almost laughs.  
  
”You’re planning on staying for the night or what?”  
  
Charles rolls his eyes.  
  
”It’s for you, stupid. Elle just asumed you’d not been out shopping lately.”  
  
Billy gets all warm, a strange feeling right now.  
  
”I’ll pay you back as soon as…”  
”No, you’re not. It’s a gift, end of discussion.”  
  
Elle has her ”this is final” voice and Charles shrugs.  
  
”Do yourself a favour and don’t argue with her.”  
  
Billy can’t help but smile a little and Elle opens the patisserie box and takes out three large pastries covered in chocolate mousse, topped with half a strawberry.  
  
”Plates, Billy. And spoons and cups.”  
  
It’s feels like ages since he had coffee with friends. He takes out the plates, cups and spoons. Sugar and soy milk too. Normal things for normal days. And the pastry tastes nice. Charles strokes away some hair behind his ear.  
  
”What’s the current state?”  
  
Billy takes a sip of his coffee.  
  
”Of me or him?”  
”Both.”  
”We breathe, eat and sleep. I called the ward just before you came. They said we had to… call our health care centre since…”  
  
Deep breath. The air hurts and Charles takes his hand. It was long since Billy felt he could be the one asking for strenght and he swallows.  
  
”I really don’t know how to help him. It’s like the health care just left him to deal with it on his own, and he’s not fucking dealing with this at all. And I… I think he knows who did it.”  
”But he wont tell.”  
  
Elle sighs.  
  
”Look, Billy, I know women who’ve been raped and trust me, most of them shut down. And blame themselves. It’s very possible he’d not even told you if there’d been a chance to avoid it.”  
”Because he wouldn’t trust me, or what?”  
”No, idiot, because he’s ashamed.”  
  
Billy can’t grasp that. He knows this is common, he’s heard people say it, but it’s just too stupid. Ned would’ve told him, even if he hadn’t been found like he was. Billy holds his cup harder.  
  
”He would’ve told me.”  
  
Elle and Charles both have blue eyes. And their gazes tell Billy that’s probably a lie.


	23. Ned (1st person)

”Eat, Ned. Just fucking eat!”  
”Go fuck yerself, Billy.”  
”What did you just say?”  
  
Right. We don’t speak like that to each other. I’ve never told him to go fuck himself before. Great. Now I’m ruining my marriage too. I don’t even turn around to face him or the two untouched trays. I’m an asshole. Not even touching the food he’s made for me. I can hear his exasperated breathing.  
  
”Don’t do this to me. I’m not fucking going down this road, you hear me?”  
”Leave. Now.”  
”Fat chance, Ned. You’re eating!”  
  
He’s yelling and I turn around. My husband is a big man and my non-existing appetite doesn’t make him feel smaller. I explode.  
  
”Or what?! I eat or fucking _what_?!”  
****  
I’m small and I’ve lost weight. He doesn’t know most of the food I’ve had since coming home, has left the same way it came. I do it when he’s in the garden, the garage or vaccuming. Stick my fingers inside my mouth so I don’t have to take a shit. Number two fucking hurts despite the meds, so when I have to eat, I make sure I don’t have to end up sobbing and bleeding on the loo. Problem with that is, I loose weight and that makes me feel even worse.  
  
I don’t hold up much resistance to him in this state and pushing him away, the amount of strenght it takes, just reminds me of how weak I am. I’m shaking from the push and he looks frightened.  
  
”Ned, you’re scaring me. I can’t… I don’t know how to help you. If you don’t eat, you’ll end up in hospital again, is that what you want?”  
  
When did this become about what I fucking want? My body wont stop shaking, my teeth are clattering and he looks so big, like a fucking giant before me. A sad giant.  
  
”Who did this to you? Who took my husband from me?”  
  
It’s as if he’s not really asking me. Not expecting me to answer because I’ve stopped talking to him and he knows it. And I know he’d do things he’d regret if he knew the truth. If he believed it. My stomach twitches from that thought. There’s always a chance he’s not believing me. The women I still can’t place, but the man…  
  
Steps. A knock.  
  
”Billy? Ned?”  
  
We have visitors? And they’re going upstairs?! For a moment my rage turns from Billy to the door and the voice clearly belonging to Elle. Billy holds his hands up, I realise he’s not asked her to follow and he turns to the door.  
  
”It’s alright, Elle. I’ll be down soon. Just… wait downstairs, okay?”  
”Okay.”  
  
Steps. This time in the right direction and my husband sighs. Wiping some tears from his face.  
  
”If we keep yelling like this…”  
  
I know. This isn’t good. Nothing is, but this makes it worse and I force myself to speak. To say something, anything that doesn’t make him feel more shut out.  
  
”I can’t stand food.”  
  
He looks at me, blue, wet gaze telling me to go on, he’s listening and I swallow.  
  
”My stomach… it just fucking hurts on the loo.”  
  
Because his ex shoved his cock up there and I can’t say that. And even if I could, I wouldn’t. Billy sinks down on my bed.  
  
”What about soup?”  
”Huh?”  
”Soup. If I make you some soup, without any bits, could you eat that?”  
  
The care. The patience. The love I don’t fucking know how to face anymore. It takes all my willpower to nod.  
  
”I’ll try.”


	24. Billy (1st person)

”Calm the fuck down and listen to me, Billy!”  
  
I worried about food. _You’re eating!_ Now I get a taste of my own medicine from James. How fucking ironic. I would laugh if I wasn’t so damn scared.   
  
You leaving in the middle of the night is beyond bad. I didn’t hear a thing. Since the fucking lunch incident, when I yelled at you and you finally ate the damn soup, I walked around with a sense of victory, small as it was. Congratulations to me, for forcing my husband to eat soup. What a victory, to see you scared for me towering over you, nine fucking inches taller. Now James is the one trying to keep me steady.  
  
”When did he leave?”  
”I don’t know!”  
”Think, Billy! When was the last time you saw him and where?”  
”On his room, around noon. I… brought some lunch to him and he got mad. I yelled at him.”  
  
I start crying. I’m so scared you’ll hurt yourself. It’s cold and dark outside, you’re not yourself and you left without your phone. I couldn’t even make you feel safe in our own home. You felt the need to run away from me. How did I manage to fuck this up so badly when all I wanted was to make you feel safe? John comes back from the hallway and sinks down before me by the kitchen table.   
  
”Hey, Billy… I’ve called Ben, Max and Charles. They’re all out looking for him, okay? Don’t worry, well find him and get him back home.”   
”What if…”  
”No fucking what ifs!”  
  
John’s voice cuts sharp through my thoughts and stops them. He takes my chin in his hand and looks at me with unusually hard, blue eyes.  
  
”We’re not breaking down now, Billy. Not now. It’s one in the morning, Ned’s gone and we need to fucking focus. James, put some coffee on and Billy, getting hysterical wont help so please, try to slow down. Take a deep breath.”  
  
He’s taking over and after some minutes I accept it. The fear is running wild, but at least I have something to hold onto. John’s hand and mind. He holds me hard and looks at me.  
  
”Alright, Billy, you brought him some lunch and he got angry. You got angry too. Am I right?”  
  
I nod.  
  
”Then what happened?”  
”I… I made him soup. From a can.”  
”You brought it upstairs?”  
”Uh-huh.”  
”And he ate it?”  
”He took the tray. Ate half of it. Almost. But I left when I’d given him the food.”  
”Alright. Then what did you do?”  
”I… I played some video games. Then I watched tv.”  
”Did you hear him come down during that time?”  
”No. I… I felt bad for yelling at him and thought I should leave him alone.”  
”And then what happened?”  
”I fell asleep on the couch.”  
  
And I didn’t wake up from you leaving and I have no idea if you left at eight, nine, eleven or only minutes before I woke up and realised you were gone. And you left your phone and your jacket.   
  
I’ve been running around the block screaming, driving around in endless circles, crying on the phone while waking up our friends and I’m exhausted. James takes out cups and pour us all some coffee and I accept because I need to stay focused. He looks tired and puts a hand on my shoulder.  
  
”I just got a text from Max. They’re all out now and they’re looking through different parts of the city. Ben and Jacob, Max and Idelle, Charles and Elle. I’ll go too while John stays here with you.”  
  
John squeezes my hand.  
  
”That’s seven people looking, Billy. We’ll find him and then we’ll find a way to help you both. Those assholes wont win.”  
”They already have.”  
”Hey!”  
  
A slap. I get so surprised I don’t even get mad. John is invading my personal space and I can feel his breath when he’s talking to me.  
  
”Now you listen to me, Billy! Ned is out there, afraid and confused and that means you have to fucking think, believe and decide for you both now. And the best way to do that, is to let us, your friends, _his_ friends, help you. You can break later, hon, we’ll be here for both of you, but right now we need to think. Can you do that?”  
  
I nod. John’s harshness is somehow calming.  
  
”I’ll try.”  
”Good. Now, you go and get some real clothes on and then you come back here and get something to eat. Leave your phone here, we’ll keep an eye on it.”  
  
He turns to James.  
  
”Babe?”  
”Yeah?”  
”Get out in the hallway and bring my bag. I brought three packages of cookies and we need to get some fucking sugar to keep up. And Billy, you’re getting dressed. Now.”


	25. Ned (3rd person)

”You’re not freezing in that?”  
”No. Ye don’t happen to have a lighter?”  
  
Of all things to forget. A fucking lighter. He’s standing like a tool in the bus shelter, looking like a fucking hobo without his jacket. Ned’s not been smoking in more than two years, but since leaving the hospital, he’s started again without even thinking about it. The old woman handing him the lighter has the look of a concearned maw and Ned realises he’s not talked to his own maw in weeks.  
  
”You had a fight with your girl?”  
  
Something almost reminding of a laugh leaves Ned with the smoke. The nicotine calms him faster than expected.  
  
”With me husband.”  
”Oh. You didn’t look like… nevermind, I didn’t mean to…”  
  
Ned smiles.  
  
”We don’t walk around with signs, ye know.”  
”Well, neither do we. What did you fight about?”  
  
She’s older than his mother. Not much, but closer to seventy than sixty. Ned’s maw got knocked up early. He finishes his first smoke and lights another one.  
  
”Nothing, really. He wanted to help and I was an ass.”  
”It’s not always easy to accept help, especially not from your loved ones, hon.”  
  
He doesn’t have an answer to that and he shivers in his thin cardigan. The smoke doesn’t keep him calm anymore. It definately doesn’t make him warm. He’s such an idiot.  
  
”Here you go, honey.”  
  
A tissue. Is he crying? Apparantly. And too tired to get the fuck out of this bus shelter and away from this woman and her kindness. Back to his husband and apologies for being an asshole and for probably keep on being that until he can forget.  
  
”That’s my cab coming… I’ve been on a trip to my daughter and the flight was delaid, so I missed the last bus with hours.”  
  
She almost sounds like she’s apologising for it. It’s the middle of fucking night and she’s tired. Of course she must be longing for bed. Ned forces a smile.  
  
”Thanks. For the… tissue and lighter.”  
  
She pats his cheek. No one’s done that since Ned was a child. And he’s freezing. She goes on the cab and opens the door, turning around with a worried look.  
  
”You’re sure you’re alright, hon? You don’t want to get a ride home?”  
  
Ned shakes his head.  
  
”Thanks, but I forgot me wallet.”  
”I’ll pay.”  
”No thanks. I’ll go home soon. But thanks anyway.”  
”Well… get home to your husband then. He must be worried.”  
  
She gets on the bus and the door closes. Ned should go home. It’s stupid, going out dressed like this. He feels stupid. A fucking tool. The bus leaves and he realises he’s without a lighter again.  
  
”Ned? Ned!”  
  
Ben. He almost burns himself on Ned’s fag when he practically comes flying into him and throws his arms around him.  
  
”Thank God! Fuck, you scared us, you idiot! Billy’s a mess, you know that? The fuck were you thinking?! And no jacket… You’re like ice, baby.”  
  
_Ice ice baby._ Ned laughs. For absolutely no fucking reason and Ben takes his own coat off, draping it over Ned’s shoulders and drags him along to the car. Ned sees Jacob there in the driving seat, talking on the phone. Why did he leave him that night? He should’ve stayed with him. Should’ve stayed with Billy. 


	26. Billy (3rd person)

As soon as he puts the phone down, he feels strangely calm. Ben and Jacob found Ned and they’re on their way home. Ned’s not hurt, at least not more, and Billy sinks down on the chair, heavy with relief. John strokes his hair softly, holding an arm around him as Billy leans against his chest. His hands are calming, so is the lack of talking.  
  
Billy’s too exhausted to speak and John, who usually goes on like he was paid for it, doesn’t seem to need to talk either. Instead, he just strokes Billy’s chest, planting a kiss on his head and hums a little. It helps. Ned’s soon coming home and Ben and Jacob are four of the best hands he could be in right now. Reliable, caring. Like Billy should’ve been. The sense of failure is as big as the one of relief. John’s hands moves in circles over his shoulders.  
  
”We’re staying the night.”  
”What? You don’t have to…”  
”Listen, Billy, at least two of us will stay here, sleep on the couch or a mattress or something. This has been a fucking awful night for you and for Ned too, I imagine. You both need to rest and you’ll only stay up and try to guard him until you fall asleep from exhaustion again. No, this is not negotiable. You need to rest properly.”  
  
Letting go of control. There’s still something making resistance. A part of him not wanting to admit he’s not capable of taking care of Ned by himself. But still… He’s so tired. So very tired and the thought of sleep, of long, uninterrupted sleep is so tempting… The sound from a car makes him move, but John takes his hand.  
  
”Try to stay calm, hon. He’s probably both scared, confused and feels guilty.”  
  
Billy understands. Adding more emotions to that is not a good idea and with the help of his friends precense, it might be easier not doing that. When the door opens and Jacob comes first with a little smile, it already feels a bit easier. Ben comes after him, followed by Ned and Billy’s heart makes a little jump before calming down. He gives Jacob and Ben a kiss on cheek, and they quickly follow John into the kitchen, leaving Billy and Ned alone in the hallway.  
  
Ned takes his shoes off. His nose and cheeks are red from the cold and something breaks inside Billy when he once again realises how thin his husband has become. Ned hangs up the borrowed coat and finally faces him. Billy swallows.  
  
”Can I hold you?”  
  
The thin body in his arms is cold and stiff, but it’s Ned’s and Billy holds it so carefully as if it was made of glass. They stand like that for a while, Ned leaning against him, slowly getting less tense and when Billy strokes his back and shoulders, a deep sigh leaves the scrawny form and Ned finally relaxes a little. Billy holds him a little closer.  
  
”You’re so cold, Ned. You want some tea?”  
”I’m… tired.”  
  
He is. It’s very clear and Billy nods.  
  
”I’ll bring you a cup to bed. Alright?”  
”Thanks…”  
  
Ned releases himself from his arms and goes upstairs. Billy walks back into the kitchen where the kettle’s already singing and his friends are waiting to get some more than well-earned tea. Charles smiles at him and Billy feels all teary-eyed again, realising all their friends came to help. He looks at them.  
  
”Thank you… for…”  
  
He doesn’t really know what else to say and Elle nods at the stairs.  
  
”Get upstairs, hon. Charles and I will sleep here tonight. Just call on us if you need to. And we’ll put the lights out and lock for the night. Go to sleep.”  
  
What has he done to deserve friends like these? He’s getting a little tray with two cups and then a goodnight kiss from Elle. When he turns in the stairs, Charles is standing on the bottom, making a gesture that he should keep walking.  
  
”We’re staying here, Billy. Go to bed.”


	27. Ned (1st person)

My bed. Our bed. Haven’t slept in it for weeks. I’ve had a shower, got my pajamas on. Although it’s not actually a pajamas, but a pair of worn-out training pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt. I’m starting to warm up and I’ve taken the meds along with the tea. My husband is calm, getting ready for the night or what’s left of it. What I haven’t ruined.  
  
”I’m sorry.”  
”Me too.”  
  
Two words. I want to say he’s got nothing to be sorry for, that he’s done nothing wrong but that would be a lie. I couldn’t take him pushing me with the food. He’s not mean, he just doesn’t understand. I press my palm to my stomach, almost without thinking about it. His eyes get worried again, or maybe it’s just sadness. Can’t tell right now.  
  
”Does it hurt?”  
”Aye.”  
”That’s why you don’t want to eat?”  
  
I nod. He already knows the reason, or at least what made it hurt too much but he has no idea of the extent. I get so fucking tense, meds or not because…  
  
”You’re bleeding when…?”  
”Sometimes.”  
”Fuck…”  
”I throw up instead sometimes. To avoid it.”  
  
I’ve said it and I wait for Billy to yell at me because he has every right to. I’m an idiot. He’s sitting on the covers and takes my hand, strokes it softly with his thumb.  
  
”You know how much weight you’ve lost?”  
  
I hesitate, because I’m afraid he’ll start yelling again, but I’m too tired to refuse telling also.  
  
”About thirteen pounds.”  
”Darling…”  
  
He says it with a sigh that’s all sadness. No scolding or disgust. Just a great sadness.  
  
”I… I don’t want you to feel so alone, Ned. I know you don’t want to talk about it and believe me when I say I don’t think that’s strange. And I don’t want to tell you how to deal with it, because I don’t know how it feels.”  
  
I swallow, holds his hand a little harder but I can’t look at him.  
  
”All I see, Ned, is that the person I love more than anyone and anything, is struggling all alone and that’s not how it should be. Nothing of this is your fault and please, please believe me when I say this. You got attacked and raped and it doesn’t matter what you did before that, because you still didn’t deserve it.”  
  
I don’t want him to say that word. My hands are shaking, but instead of pulling away I hold his hands harder. Have my eyes closed, I can’t look at him. The eyes belonging to the kind, soft voice.  
  
”I’m not blaming you, Ned. I blame only those who did this to you. I believe you, I trust you and even if I can’t understand how you feel, I know how common it is for survivers to blame themselves. I could’ve lost you that night… When they called me from the ER, oh God, Ned… No one who’s not a complete fucking idiot, blames his husband for getting raped.”  
  
The word again. Raped. I’ve been raped. My whole body is shaking now, my teeth are clattering but my husband’s calm. My husband who’s ex boyfriend was one of my attackers.  
  
”Ned, look at me.”  
  
Blue eyes. Calm eyes, not angry and frustrated as before.  
  
”You’re safe now. I know you don’t feel safe, but you’re at home with me and our friends are downstairs. We’re together, we’re not leaving you alone.”  
”I can’t talk about it… Please, Billy…”  
”You don’t have to, Ned. I’m… I’m sorry for yelling at you, I didn’t mean to force you to say anything. I just… If this happened to me, wouldn’t you want to do anything to help?”  
  
Tears. Mine. I nod. Of course I would, but I can’t replace Billy with me in that thought. I understand what he means, I know his right but I just can’t do what he’s asking of me.  
  
”I just want to forget… And I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s always there and I…”  
  
If I talk about it, I get no rest at all in my waking hours. Because I think about it all the time and the meds don’t take any of it away, they merely make the pictures less sharp. The feelings less strong. The one face I remember less clear. The one thing I fear more than anything, are the moments when I’m not sure who’s hands are holding me. Right now they’re Billy’s, but what if they’re not the next time I wake up?  
  
He’s still only holding my hands. Not hoovering over me and that makes it just a little, very little, better.  
  
”Ned?”  
”Yeah…?”  
”Can I lay down, on the covers?”  
  
I nod. He’s asking. Even if it’s his bed too. He shouldn’t have to ask and I hate that he’s doing it. Hate that it helps. Because I shouldn’t be afraid of him.  
  
We’re facing each other like we used to, but I can’t feel _us_ anymore. Not as it used to be and that makes me more sad than anything else. That they took _us_ away from me. And for what? For letting Billy know that stop having sex he doesn’t want, comes with a price. That choosing someone who couldn’t even defend himself, was a big fucking mistake.


	28. Billy (1st person)

It’s Elle who comes with the offer, the morning after. While you’re still asleep and I have a late breakfast with her and Chaz. I know you won’t like this one bit, but I’m grateful. Because there’s only so much time I’m allowed to stay off work to take care of you and there’s just no way I’m leaving you alone. If I was religous, I’d probably praise one or many gods now for our friends. From nine to five, two of them keeps us company. Four hours each. Elle has already talked to the others, before I’ve had a chance to forget the dreadful night and pretend it never happened.  
  
It’s so tempting. I must get back to work fulltime soon. You need some rest from me. And I from you. I don’t want to admit how good it feels, the thought of getting back to care about cars. One of the things I really like with being an assembly technician, is that it doesn’t allow my mind to run off. I must stay completely focused and it doesn’t leave much room for smalltalk while working. My co-workers know I’ve been off for ”personal reasons”, but I don’t know how much they really know and I don’t want to find out either. I don’t expect them to ask too much. My boss only knows you’ve been severely abused but not in which way.  
  
We don’t work fulltime, really. People think we’re a bit weird, but we don’t have expensive habits and time to spend on our hobbies, friends and of course each other, are more important than money. But now I must work fulltime for a little while, to compensate for the time off. And for an indefinate period, our friends can remake their schedules to help us. A help you’re taking as an insult, I realise.  
  
When I get upstairs with some yoghurt and tea you manage to take tiny mouthfuls and sips from, I keep you company. Ask how you’re feeling, getting a shrug for answer. I tell you when you’re done eating and no, you’re not pleased. At all. You need no fucking babysitter or keeper and you tell me that with a voice that could make the sun freeze. It’s probably only the meds that keeps you from getting yourself all worked up.   
  
”I don’t fucking _need_ them here, Billy.”  
”What if you get another attack like last night?”  
”Ye don’t trust me.”  
  
I could lie, but not now. Not to you. Not about this. I shake my head.  
  
”No, I don’t.”  
  
_And you don’t trust me either_ , I could add. You look like I’ve broken your heart and stomped on the pieces and I try to explain.  
  
”The way you feel now, it’s just… I can’t take knowing you might not eating, or not doing your meds. I don’t want you to be alone if you’re getting a panic attack.”  
”I’m not a fucking toddler!”  
”Did I say you were? It’s not you, it’s your fucking anxiety I don’t trust. What it does to you.”  
”I don’t need a babysitter.”  
”No, you don’t. You’re having trouble sleeping, eating and dealing with things right now and you need some company to help you a little.”  
”With what?”  
”Just making things easier when I’m not around. Food, meds, things like that. Someone who could help you if you get panicked.”  
”Do I even have a say in this?”  
”It’s just for a little while…”  
  
You can hear me avoiding the question and I get a sneer from you.   
  
”Ye know what, Billy. Ye don’t have to answer that.”  
”Ned, please, I just…”  
” _Don’t_. Fucking leave me alone will ye? Unless ye want to fucking spoonfeed me. Ye want that, huh?”  
”No.”  
”Then get the fuck out.”  
  
I take the tray with me. At least you ate the damn yoghurt.


	29. Ned (1st person)

Was there ever a time when I liked sex? I’m alone in my bed, the door is closed and no one’s bothering me. I don’t even remember who has the damn ”shift” right now and honestly I don’t give a shit. For an asexual person I’ve spent a hell of a lot time thinking about sex since my teens. I wasn’t a ”late bloomer”, nor early. My body was never one of those being singled out as too early, too late, too big or too small. I was popular among the girls because I liked imaginary games. Accepted by the boys because I was quick on my feet as well as with my mouth. Could talk my way out of most situations my thin body and theatre interest put me into.  
  
I was fourteen the first time. She went in my parallel class, I guess we were a couple and we always met at her place. I wanted to be there to avoid my own siblings and to meet her brother. They were Indian and he was eighteen and gorgeous, she was cute and nice and I didn’t figure out until later I had a major crush on her brother. We were both virgins and it was a disaster, but not horrible. We actually laughed and the second time it went a little better. I just didn’t really get the point.  
  
Had a couple of girls but it was never for long and while I did my best trying to not ”overthink” my secret crushes on other guys, I quietly accepted I might be bisexual. Not gay. Absolutely not, because I didn’t want to fuck other guys. Just… kiss them. Wanted to hug, hold and touch them. And then I met Oisín. I was sixteen, he was eighteen and I was madly in love. We met in secret, of course, and he knew I’d never been with a guy before. We kissed, but it never stayed there and I couldn’t make myself saying it was enough. I thought maybe it would feel more interesting if I went a little further. I mean, I was hard and I loved kissing him, I liked his hands so maybe I was just nervous.  
  
We gave each other handjobs and sure, it wasn’t unpleasant or anything, but it felt kinda… pointless. I sucked him and the only thing I liked about that, was knowing that he liked it. He sucked me and I didn’t want to say I didn’t like it, because he was older and more experienced. And I was a teenager. My cock could get up for fucking tomato soup and get off easy as nothing. Why bother Oisín by telling him I’d rather just kiss, cuddle and watch movies?  
  
I’ve had sex so many times just because someone else wanted it. Because someone begged, nagged and asked until I gave in. No, I can’t remember ever liking it. It’s gone all the way from slightly unpleasant to get the fuck off me and all things in between. But I’ve never enjoyed it, only accepted it as something I had to do if I didn’t want to spend my life alone. A duty.  
  
Before that awful night, I can’t remember any occasion that _made me_ like this. I wasn’t molested, abused or had any childhood trauma. No twisted body image or bad confidence. At least not worse than others, I guess. I didn’t long for sex, ever. If I had it, it was always on someone elses initative and I didn’t feel violated afterwards. Just… indifferent. A bit irritated. What’s the fucking point? I got more uncomfortable as I got older and I didn’t change. When I realised that other men’s libido didn’t seem to decrease and I learned that there was always a price to pay for cuddles and kisses. Some had more patience than others. Some less. A couple of them wouldn’t take no for an answer until I shoved a knee between their legs. I’ve always been a good runner. At least when I’m not spiked.  
  
I can’t even look at booze of any kind now. I’ve asked Billy to put our wine bottles away somewhere I can’t see them. To keep his beers on the bottom shelf in the fridge. I know I wont get drugged in my own home, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t trust myself around booze and what’s even worse, I don’t trust other people around it either. I didn’t see, taste or feel it was something strange with my drink before it was too late. The fact that I eat too little, hasn’t only with my bleeding ass to do. Unopened boxes and bottles makes eating a little easier.  
  
Portion packages of yoghurt, rice cakes, soups ready to drink and frozen fruits and berries in those ridiculous single portion plastic bags. Things that are harder to spike and don’t make my guts burn. If Billy could just stop getting all hysterical over my small portions, maybe I could focus on fucking eating them even if I honestly don’t like any food at the moment.  
  
I like the meds that makes me sleep without nightmares. And I like having my door closed. That’s about it right now. I don’t like company or talking and I hate food and being guarded. Don’t like my body, don’t like Billy’s body and if I didn’t like sex earlier, I hate it with all my being now. The only things I hate more than sex and being guarded, are Woodes Rogers, the two women still nameless to me and myself.


	30. Billy (3rd person)

”A dog?” ****  
”Not just any dog. A service dog.”  
  
James sounds like he’s explaining something to a child and Billy swallows the irritation, trying to remember this is probably something close to how Ned feels when someone talks to him these days.   
  
”And what’s that compared to a normal dog?”  
”They’re specialized in helping people with, for example, ptsd. They’ll make them feel safer, more relaxed, drecrease isolation and such things.”  
”They must cost a damn fortune.”  
”There is a foundation.”  
  
He’s even brought brochures.  
  
”He likes dogs, right?”  
  
Billy nods. Ned likes a lot of animals. Normally he’s the kind of person who stops on the sidewalk to talk to a passing cat or a loud bird. It’s more than liking them. Billy’s husband loves animals almost as much as his vegan friends. Ben and Jacob use to tease him a little for the love that doesn’t reach his plate, but it’s all in good spirit. Dogs, cats and rabbits are like fucking magnets to him and when thinking about it, being around animals might do him good. But still…  
  
”A dog… I mean, sure I like dogs too, but this is a little... It’s a big responsible and none of us are exactly dog _people_.”  
”Of course there’s work but it’s something to think about, right? I know a couple who work with this.”  
  
Billy raises his eyebrows.  
  
”You know how to keep a secret, don’t you?”  
  
James just shrugs and hands over a card. _Miranda & Thomas Hamilton._ _Paw In Hand Service Dogs_.  
  
”I could call them myself if you like. Just to have a check.”  
  
Yes. Answering the phone takes energy these days. Not to mention calling. Both of Ned’s sisters and his mother have called when Ned doesn’t want to speak to them and pneumonia doesn’t take this long to heal. The excuses Billy has to make for Ned’s silence are boarding on more than suspicious now. He shrugs.  
  
”Can’t make it worse.”  
  
He sounds so bitter. He can hear it himself. James tilts his head a little.  
  
”What’s the worst? I mean, for you.”  
”Me?”  
  
Is it even possible to pick one thing? The nightmares, the panic attacks, the self-starvation that asshole Dr. Hamilton and their own doctor at the healthcare centre don’t give two shits about. To feel so fucking powerless when the man he loves is so broken. Knowing that those who did this still walk around free while Ned is punished with nightmares, pain and anxiety. Billy sighs. Turns the half-empty cup of lukewarm tea around.  
  
”He knows who did it.”  
”What?”  
  
Billy nods. The muscles around his eyes get tense, his hands nervous around the blue cup.  
  
”We wont tell me and I… I start to think he somehow knew all of them. At least in passing.”  
” _All_ of them?”  
”They were three.”  
  
James looks horrified and Billy just nods again.  
  
”Yeah… one man and two women.”  
  
The tea gets colder. The clock in the kitchen ticks too loud.  
  
”I don’t know what to say, Billy…”  
”Me neither. It… is what it is. Can’t change it and if I knew who did it… well, then I guess I’d be serving time.”  
  
For assault. Torture. Murder. How long can you keep a person alive under maximal pain?   
  
”He likes dogs… ”  
  
Billy forces the thoughts away and takes up the business card again. Hamilton…?  
  
”Is this…? Are they related to…?”  
”That doctor? Yes. He’s Thomas’ father but they have no contact. Thomas broke with him at least twenty years ago and I can assure you, he’s nothing like his father. If he was, I wouldn’t recommend him to my worst enemy, and definately not to my best friends.”  
”And his wife?”  
”Miranda? A natural with both dogs and people.”  
  
Wounded people. Broken ones. Like Ned. Billy bites his lip, looks at the card again and nods.  
  
”Call them. Please… I’m desperate.”


	31. Ned (3rd person)

A dog? Is he fucking kidding? What does he think Ned is? A bloody war vet? Ned wants to say no. Wants to tell his husband to go fuck himself, because apparently Ned is now an asshole who doesn’t appreciate what Billy or anyone else is doing for him. _We have an appointment in five days._  
****  
Ned slams the door. His chest is tightening. The slam doesn’t release enough tension but it still makes him exhausted. He needs to eat. His clothes are hanging loose around his body, not falling off, but they don’t sit well anymore. Ned hammers his hipbones with his fists. Why the fuck can’t he just swallow food and keep it down?! Must everything remind of that fucking night? That he couldn’t take care of himself and passed out like a fucking teen on moonshine in a car. And now he can’t eat, can’t sleep without meds and Billy wants to get a fucking watch dog!  
  
”Ned? Are you alright?”  
  
John. His afternoon guard. No, Ned’s not alright and that’s why John’s knocking so why keep fucking ask?!  
  
His skin is squeezing around the ribs. The air comes in short, short amounts. Not enough. Not nearly enough.  
  
”Ned? Can I come in?”  
  
No. This is an invasion. Guards. A watch dog. Why doesn’t Ned’s body burst in it’s seams? His skin, winter pale and blueish where the veins are visible, is too tight.  
  
”Honey, please open up?”  
  
Billy. Fuck Billy. Fuck him and his guards and watch dogs! Ned tries to breathe slower, but it doesn’t help and the panic turns on full speed and he doesn’t know if he actually wants the door to open or not because he’ll die soon anyway. He can’t get any air and he starts clawing himself on his chest, his throat.  
  
_You don’t have to be like this, Ned. You could fix this, with a little help… You could try again…_  
  
She has grey-green eyes, long, blonde hair and laughs too much. Her fingers serch their way to Ned’s neck and he removes them with a laugh. One time, two time.  
  
_Alright, stop it._  
  
Cinnamon. The other one smells like cinnamon. And beer. Anna…? No, not Anna. Brown eyes and curly hair. Halfway on Woodes knee. He’s smiling. Moving her hand to Ned’s shoulder.  
  
_Knock it off! I’m married. And ace. I’m not into sex at all._  
  
The world is getting so blurry. The car. The hands. Too many to laugh off. And Ned’s tired. Tired and hard. He doesn’t notice it. The cinnamon girl does.  
  
_Look what we got here!_  
  
Hands that wont stop. Can’t they hear him? He doesn’t want this. Can’t they tell? He’s throwing his head, the only part of him not pressed down, trying to bite them and he gets hold on an arm, Woodes’ arm and he bites as hard as he can…  
  
”Ned! Ned stop! You’re hurting yourself, you’re bleeding! Help me hold him, John! Jesus Christ, help us!”  
  
Who’s helping Ned? He’s stuck and biting doesn’t help. Someone’s putting fabric in his mouth to bite on and the arms around him are forcing his exhausted body to submission.  


	32. Billy (1st person)

I love you. My little theatre monkey, I love you so much not even your entire collection of Shakespeare could make it justice. I’m sitting on a bed at the ER and you’re laying almost completely still with your head in my lap and a plastic band with your name and social security number around your unharmed wrist. The other one is in bandage. Your belt, shoes and jewlery are locked away and if you could stand up, your jeans would fall to your ankles. God, how did it come to this?  
  
I’ve asked for Dr. Howell. Not that I know if there’s any point in asking. And its seems as if our friends have taken over the roles of related troublemakers this time. I’m unfit for that, all I’m good enough for now is to hold you. I hear steps towards our little corner and the drapes are pulled apart. It’s the right doctor with the serious eyes and warm smile.  
  
”Hello, Billy.”  
”Dr. Howell.”  
  
He sits down beside us on a stool, without touching.  
  
”Hello, Ned. Do you reckognize me? I’m doctor Howell and we’ve met before.”  
  
No answer. Not that the doc seems to have counted on that.  
  
”Do you know where you are, Ned?”  
  
He continues asking questions, even if you don’t answer. I don’t even know what to feel anymore.  
  
”I need to ask your husband some questions too, Ned. I hope it’s alright if I do it here?”  
  
Because someone has to answer and you’re not, so I do. I tell about what happened, about the attack and how the previous days have been. About the idea of a service dog, the meds that just don’t help enough and our friends keeping guard. And all the time I’m telling, you lay still in my lap. You cried when they gave you the shot with sedatives but they help far, far better than the pills you have at home.  
  
I tell about the food you don’t eat and your hands move just a little. About the nightmares, the faces you wont tell me about and the one name you screamed. _Alice._ When I repeat it, your hands dig harder into my thighs and I stroke your shoulders. Your nails don’t hurt me, you’re too beaten from the panic attack and the sedatives to do me, yourself or anyone else any harm now. And this time, I’m allowed to stay with you.  
  
There’s some kind of comfort in this. Despite being back at what seems as square one, at least it’s a safe place in a way. I reckognize some of the staff, the nurse named Muldoon and others. And they’re kind to you. To me. I can hold you. My presence keeps you calm now. Your scruffed head in my lap. The doc thinks a service dog may not be a bad idea at all and I don’t have to leave.  
  
You’re getting nutrition from a tube again. The tests showed a deficiency in iron and B12 and your poor, thin stomach has lost it’s shape and has bruises from your fists. You’ve taken your anger, your nightmares and painful memories out on your body and the hate I feel for the name and the nameless that yet bare no faces to me, knows no limits. And this time I’m forced to tell your older sister. I should tell your mother, Elan, but decide that Fiona might be a better choise. You little sister, Rose, and your older half-brother Dylan are not close with you. Fiona is another matter. I’ve met her several times and  she and your mother are the ones who’ve called since they knew about the ”pneumonia”. Your father hasn’t. And who am I to ask you to tell me the truth, when I only tell half of it to your sister? That you suffer from ptsd, from being abused and robbed. That you’d asked me not to tell her and I hate my lie but I just can’t make myself speak the truth.  
  
_Your little brother was raped and left in the snow some weeks ago and now he’s back at the hospital, thin as a stick and he wont tell anyone who did this to him._ ****  
  
No. I can’t tell her that. I press a kiss on your hair. I’m so tired of being strong. And where can I find this Alice and kill her?


	33. Ned (1st person)

”No, Ned… Don’t do that.”  
  
Your voice. Your hands. But not your touch. There are many ways to hurt yourself with your bare hands. I’ve jacked off for hours now, if you could call it that. It hurts. I’m sore and my cock hates me. Good. I hate it too. Fucking traitor getting hard enough for those women to ride me. You’re forcing my hands to rest.   
  
”Don’t hurt yourself like that, babe.”  
”Let go off me.”  
”Only if you’re not hurting yourself.”  
”I’m not!”  
”You’re all red and sore, Ned. Please stop.”  
  
Your care. Your kindness. Your hands bottoning my jeans, hiding the part I want to claw. You’re so much stronger than me, especially now. I’m weak and pathetic and stuck in this fucking nightmare.   
  
”I’m not leaving you alone. I’m here, I’ll stay with you in this no matter what.”  
”I’m a fucking wreck…”  
”No, you’re not. You’re my strong, intelligent, beautiful and loving husband. You’re a survivor, Ned. My survivor.”  
  
Stop it. I want to beg you to stop, ’cause you’re tearing down my walls and I’m so tired and confused. They took my life from me, the life I shared with you and this is what’s left. It’s not strong, not intelligent and certainly not beautiful.   
  
”You didn’t deserve any of this, those who did this to you are the only ones to blame.”  
  
I can’t handle this. The power in your care. The begging I hear behind the words. Brick for brick the barricade between you and the truth becomes smaller and smaller. Can’t you understand that it’s not me I’m protecting, but you? And yet, I’m the one being cradled. I need it, I long for it. God, I’ve longed to feel safe in your arms again since that night but I only have to close my eyes to doubt them.   
  
”Let go off me!”  
  
Getting loose. Clawing. Once again your grip.   
  
”Ned, stop it, please! Please, _please_ , don’t do this to yourself!”  
  
You’re too strong for me. My body so pathetically small compared to yours. And weak. I loose my strength so suddenly it’s a wonder I don’t just sink to the floor. Or maybe I do, except you’re catching me. Lifting me in your arms and onto your lap. Sweeping the blanket around me. There is blood on my fingers, on yours.   
  
”God, Ned… Why? Why are you hurting yourself? Sweet darling… I love you so, so much, little muppet…”  
  
I don’t cry. Have forgotten how. But I’ve stopped clawing, stopped trying to get away. The cage your arms turned to is gone and I feel… safe. Protected. You rock me in your arms. I’m cradled, not captured. I reckognize your touch again.   
  
You have your rings. It was summer when you asked me to marry you. I had my head in your lap, reading while you watched a game. I reach for your hand, rubbing the bands on your finger. Two thin goldbands. Mine are locked away for me not to hurt myself on them. And the pain catches up, the realisation of where the blood on my fingers comes from, the stains on my clothes. A pathetic whimper leaves me and you answer it with the softest of kisses on my cheek.  
  
”The nurses will probably come and give you some meds and take care of the blood soon, hon. You want me to stay with you when they do?”  
  
No. Yes. I don’t know.   
  
My anchor. Your massive arms making me look even smaller. But they’ve never done me harm. I’m a mess of tears and as so many times before during this nightmare, you use your body to shut some of it out. It’s your touch again and I don’t want to leave it.


	34. Billy (3rd person)

Maybe he’s a fool. How could a dog do any difference? But here he is, two days after that horrible clawing, visiting the dog farm – although that’s probably not the right name – with James. It’s on the countryside, of course, and it feels surprisingly refreshing to be out in the open again. Billy can’t even remember the last time he was out walking in another landscape than town. As soon as they leave the car, a woman comes walking straight at them, smiling.  
  
”James! And William… Manderly, is it? Welcome! I’m Miranda Hamilton.”  
  
Handshake. Smile. She has something calming over her. She’s dressed in stretch jeans, a knitted sweater and a vest. Her dark hair in a bun and the brown eyes friendly.  
  
”Would you like a cup of tea?”  
  
Billy throws a gaze at James and his friend nods.  
  
”Yes, please, Randy. That would be nice.”  
  
Randy? Oh, right. Miranda. Billy follows her and James over the yard, listening to the sound of dogs, but not as many as imagined. The house is quite small, in difference to the building where, Billy assume, the dogs live. Mrs. Hamilton – or Randy – leads them inside a clean but quite messy kitchen and asks them to sit down. She puts the kettle, shouts for her husband – if Thomas not happen to be one of the dogs names as well – and a blonde man with the bluest eyes Billy’s ever seen, enters the kitchen from the hallway. Miranda nods at him.  
  
”This is my husband Thomas. Thomas, this is William Manderly, James’ friend.”  
”Actually it’s just Billy.”  
  
He smiles at the blonde man, who takes his hand and Billy wonders how the fuck a man looking this innocent, could be related to that asshole at the hospital. John is staying with Ned now, thank God, and Dr. Hamilton doesn’t work at the psychiatric ward, but still… Leaving Ned alone there doesn’t feel good, even if this leave is for his own good.  
  
They have tea in the kitchen and Billy soon gets smitten byt the couple. It’s very clear that they’re close friends with James – how come they’ve not met before? – and Miranda has a little secretive smile on her lips and glittering eyes. Thomas, on the other hand, looks strangely innocent, or perhaps he’s just an unusually happy guy. He tells about himself, Miranda and their dogs. The work they’re doing and then he asks about Billy and Ned. Billy almost chokes on his tea, he’s so unprepared to talk about his marriage even though it’s of course necessairy for these people to know why their friend thinks Ned needs a service dog.  
  
It’s hard to talk. To know how much is necessairy to tell them, but their friendly eyes and courteous questions are staying on the right side. Not tipping over too much and I honestly don’t want to know how much James already told them. Non of them seem to be the slightest uncomfortable with this and Miranda refills my cup.  
  
”We’re working with people with a numerous of different traumas. When we decide to work with a client, it may take a while before we find the right match. It’s important that both the client and the dog feel comfortable with each other.”  
  
Of course. Billy knows that and Miranda knows he knows it, but it’s somehow calming listening to her. These are good people, kind people who obviously love their dogs. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all…  
  
They’re leaving the kitchen after a while, to take a look at the dogs they have at the moment. Golden Retrievers, Labradors… Billy doesn’t know much about dogs, really, but he must admit these dogs seem very well behaved and not at all like the drooling, jumping kids in fur he usually meet. Thomas walks around the animals like a proud father.  
  
”We primarly work with people with PTSD of different kind. It can be anything from war vets to crime victims.”  
  
He tells about their work, the different dogs and the more they tell, the less stupid this idea seems. At least he must talk with Ned about this. Properly. Thinking about it, Ned loves walking in the forrest. Or at least he did before all this. With a dog, he wouldn’t have to be scared. And a dog specialized in feeling his or her daddy’s anxiety attacks, calming them… Yes, this might actually work. That is, if his husband could be persuaded to give it chance.


	35. Ned (3rd person)

”You know who did it, right?”  
  
The sun is shining through the window at the ward. It can’t be opened. John’s hair always looks very pretty in sunlight. The ringlets so tempting to entangle fingers in. Ned secretly likes seeing James playing with his husband’s poodle locks. Billy’s oldest friend seems to loose some of his usual grumpiness whenever he plays with John’s hair. Ned turns in the bed, pretending he didn’t hear.  
  
”I know you’re awake, Ned.”  
  
John’s voice is so smoothe. He’s the kind of person who can get raged and still not loose the softness of his voice. It’s like silk. But now he’s not angry, just determined. Patient and determined. A terrifying combination to face when bearing a screcret that must stay hidden.  
  
”Once, when I was eighteen, I was working on a boat. In the kitchen, believe it or not. Not that I was doing any actual cooking. I did dishes and served guests. It was a pretty nice job, actually. Got free breakfast every morning and didn’t have to pay rent.”  
  
Ned listens, without showing it. Trying to not show it.  
  
”There was a girl there. I liked her at first. She was funny, pretty and was the only one close to my age. Ended up spending time together after our shifts and after a while she found out I was gay. She didn’t make a big deal of it at all, I didn’t even come out she just… knew. And then one night we got high in her cabin. Was pretty good stuff and I was a beginner. She didn’t have any.”  
  
Sun on the floor, on John’s shoes. Ned doesn’t know if he wants to hear anymore.  
  
”I woke up the next morning, naked in her bed. Had no idea how I ended up there and then this girl says… _you’re obviously not gay_.”  
  
Billy’s friend, his friend, sounds different. Indifferent.  
  
”You know, it’s more than fifteen years ago and I didn’t tell James until we were already married. He got tired of my excuses not go with him on a cruise and bought tickets to us both. I freaked out and then, when we’d spent some days shifting between arguing and silent treatment, I told him.”  
  
Ned feels his chest tighten again, the sound of John turning away from the window and back to the chair.  
  
”I’ve never seen him so… destroyed. Felt as if I’d ruined him. Us. I didn’t want to make a big deal about it, I felt stupid. Funny thing is… up until I told James, I’d never really thought about it as an assault. I probably knew, on some level, but I couldn’t stand thinking about it. So I tried to forget and it worked pretty well for a time. To be honest, I didn’t realise that girl actually raped me, until I saw James crying.”  
  
A sigh. Blue eyes, a little weary from lack of sleep or perhaps telling his story. Ned looks at him, meets his gaze, anyone’s gaze, for the first time in two days. John looks pained but not uncomfortable. As if he’s accepted what’s happened and feels no shame. He takes Ned’s hand.  
  
”That woman went free. I worked with her, had lunch breaks with her. I sat there, with her and our collegues and I felt… I don’t know… gross and pathetic. Terrified someone might find out, that I’d been stoned and slept with a co-worker without remembering it. And she, who’d been my friend, acted as if everything was just fine. You, James and another former friend are the only ones I’ve ever told. The friend I told, is a former for a reason.”  
  
_What reason?_  
  
”He laughed at me when I told him. Said I was lucky to getting it up while being high.”  
  
John’s hand, warm and dry. It doesn’t wander. And Ned knows who did it. He knows all three names and their faces.  
  
Charlotte. Woodes. And Alice.  
  
They all live here.  
  
_TBC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part one of "Down Foreverdark Woods Trail" - title from Bathory's "Foreverdark Woods" and the second part will be a continue on the same story, but I've divided it in two.


End file.
